by John Grey.
I’m barely in the shop
and the girl behind
the Starbucks counter
is already filling my order,
me being predictable and
she, only eighteen or so,
with a gift of knowing who
gets what, an instinct to
match a migrating bird’s.
I drink my latte alone
at a table in a far corner
and wonder what she’s doing here.
Is she smart and ambitious
and working this dumb job
to pay for college?
Or is she here because
this is the best work
she figures she can get,
the drive driven out of her
by lack of encouragement at home?
I can’t believe this is her upward limit,
not with that warm smile,
those engaging eyes.
No coffee shop,
no matter how well
you serve the clientele,
is the peak of life’s profession.
In my grandmother’s time,
many women worked
this kind of job
in hope of being rescued
by some guy.
These days,
it’s my wondering
that needs rescue.