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Dirty Hands; Or: The Lot of a Barista
by Rachel C JohnsonThe scent of coffee has stained my skin;
and, hours after Ive passed through
the doors of your local Starbucks,
I can smell the ghost of used grounds
in the wrinkles of my hands
tainting me like hollow tattoos.
It minglesthis scent, which is
complex, even to a trained nose
with sweat and the residue of metal
everything, youll notice,
if you truly look around,
is aluminum or iron.
And that too makes it savory, to hold
my fingers so near my face
whether in tears or in joy
and smell the aroma of stale grounds.
It is interesting how we find such luxury
derived from middle-class things;
or how we find comfort
even with dirty hands.
03/30/2008 Author's Note: Ponderings or ramblings or something in between.
Posted on 03/30/2008
Copyright © 2010 Rachel C Johnson
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Coleman Demiurge on 03/30/08 at 03:57 PM Ponderings, ramblings, or whatever in between, this is really good. Much of your stuff tends to be more on the prose front, but this one here seems to read much more poetic... Quite impressive. |
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