He said, "You will hold still while I drink you."
And he said, "The matter is not up for discussion."
He said, "After all, I own you. You are my coffee."
Sinisterly he added, "This is not a democracy."
People sitting near him began to stare, became silent,
and they stared through their glasses, their heads
ensconced in turned-up collars, their bodies
swathed in bushy coats, with platinum accessories.
The only sound in the small coffee shop
other than the authoritarian man's voice
was a mild jangling of jewelry and car keys,
for some were getting up quietly to exit, quietly
so as not to interrupt the performance, as quietly
as they could, considering that they were so heavily
accessorized as to be mistaken, possibly,
for metallurgists or German shopkeepers, and so
continued the authoritarian man, barking "Aw!
You are so HOT right now, ha!" and "I shall indeed
drink you down to the botty-bottom of the cuppy-cup,
for when I finish, the barista will fill you back up!"
A small child in the corner raised its hand,
a child with moon-shaped face and crazy hair,
waited to be called on—but no one called on it.
—Aaron Belz
Copyright © 2014 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture magazine. Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.
