ODE TO THE CUBAN LATTE

Suppose that coffee could save lives;

Gentlemen, perhaps even secure you wives

(Ladies, of course you’re not forgotten,

But talk of husbands feels most rotten).

Returning to our supposition,

Let’s also assume awareness of our condition

(Which Pascalians must never deny

Is want for coffee lest our souls die);

Then why, reason would request,

Would we settle for naught save the best?

We cannot blame ignorance for such a sin,

For a hippie-chic menu to you (our friend) is given,

Not merely for, although we wouldn’t mind, admiring,

But also for deliberate pondering;

And upon such deliberation and wonder,

Your eyes would rush back and forth in wander,

And, thanks to curiosity, two simple words

Curiously chalked together would be to you a lure.

“What might such an odd coupling be, I wonder,

That would merit the title Cuban Latte,” and in ponder

You’d question the barista (which is a word you don’t quite understand),

With pointed finger and “Sir,” or “Ma’am, that there looks grand,”

And the barista might not even turn to follow your gaze,

For he or she knows, and will know till the end of his or her days,

That the Cuban Latte is the glared upon drink,

The glorious, wondrous thing making you think

That maybe you’ve been missing out,

And you decide to see what all the grandeur is about.

So you order and, perhaps with a wait (for such a thing must not be rushed),

Take hold of the golden (really brownish-yellow) mug, cheeks blushed

At your own awareness of your radiant excitement,

And (you must be dazed) turn and step with back bent

Careful not to spill, hands smoldering in your grip,

You find a seat and, hesitantly (for you’re wonderfully scared), sip.

At once, the void that has rotted empty for so long

Is flooded by the rushing Cuban throng

(Is this really Cuban, you wonder, but, at last, realize you don’t care)

And a magnificent chorus sings (only you’re aware),

“It is what it is,” and “Sorry, sorry, sorry is the somebody

Who has never drunk of the glory.”

Drinking, you sit for a minute (maybe an hour, maybe a few)

And everybody is glaring at your happy hue;

So you realize what the drink has just done:

Lifted your spirit like a glowing, gold sun.

Perhaps you then fall asleep, and dream of the Cuban drink,

Or maybe in study you cannot think

Of the thing that you’re doing:

Your mind is consumed in aweing and ooing

Of the drink on your tongue

That has left your soul-bells rung.

At length, you finish, amazed and confused,

Ready to leave, fully re-fused.

You open the door (for you must be some place)

But on your lips you feel the tingling grace

Of what you’ve just drunk,

And the thought of parting leaves your soul sunk.

So you consider buying one to go,

But your wallet’s feeling powerfully low,

So you plan to return (you hope tomorrow) another day

To drink the splendidly bewildering Cuban Latte.