Before the daily grind,
I’m drawn in, intoxicated
by the aroma of fresh-roasted.
The barista calls out the WiFi code
to the artisanally acquainted.
Briefly, we debate the demerits
of the disposable cup.
He tosses his head,
all smiles and white teeth,
decorative as the drinks he serves.
I head out, head down,
mouth grazing the too-hot plastic lip.
Last night’s documentary still brewing.
Something jars, remembering those workers,
slaves of the coffee plantation,
their day’s labour worth less
than my coins rattling in the till.
I feel them eye me from afar,
their silent stares
taking in my full, throwaway cup.
