The line was long, a slow Monday morning.
They waited patiently, neither taking cuts
nor giving up position. At a table were two
policemen, fully garbed, sipping espressos.

“Raspberry mocha with a peppermint
twist, triple shot with cinnamon sticks,
make it three: Grande, Venti, and Trenta,
and a plate of twelve fresh breadsticks.”

“A jar of pickled pettitoes and a Tall
glass of water, please.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but you must
stick to the menu.”

“A mushroom latte, then,
hold the whipped cream.”

One of the policemen looked up,
the other did not.
The barista gallant,
tattooed with Galgulta across
her upper chest,
called out the orders with a voice
so young and joyful and beautiful
Jesus wept, and the Buddha smiled.

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