up
e.e. cummings g o e s
to the counter &orders
an icedvanillalatte
he
sits.
waits.
onetwothreefourfive minutes
until the baristalady w h i s t l e s his name—
“how do you like your coffee, mr. poet?”
The baristas have been in the shop for three minutes when they hear a knock on the glass at the front of the store. Someone on the other side of the door has his forehead pressed against the glass, almost as though he’d be unable to stand on his own. Clearly he needs coffee. One of the braver baristas opens the door; John Keats enters.
John Keats orders a Venti iced caramel Frappuccino. He sits down at a table by himself, sighs dramatically, and doesn’t drink it.
Eugene O’Neill goes up to the counter first thing in the morning and orders a black coffee.
Mary Oliver enters the Starbucks. A flock of birds follows her through the door. She orders a chocolate smoothie, but the barista can’t hear her over the general chaos. There’s a kingfisher diving into the iced coffee, wrens are using straws to construct nests, and a large goose has caught itself in the ceiling fan.
“I can’t work under these conditions!” shouts the barista.
The din seems to die down just long enough for Oliver to reach across the counter and grasp the barista’s hand. “It does not have to be good,” she says earnestly. She takes her half-made smoothie to go, leaving Starbucks overrun with wildlife.
Rip Van Winkle enters, yawns, and tries to order a glazed donut. “Sir,” says the barista, “this is a Starbucks. We don’t really do donuts.” Rip Van Winkle looks around, bemused. “It sure looks like Dunkin’ Donuts,” he says. “The only thing that’s any different is the sign.…”
Nick Carraway enters, but instead of ordering something for himself, he leans on the edge of the counter and narrates what everyone else is ordering for the entire day.
Harper Lee comes in and orders a Grande cappuccino. She thinks it tastes great, and the other people in the shop seem to agree, so she never orders another drink again. When her family friend orders her a tall decaf fifty-five years later, no one believes it’s really for Ms. Lee.
Elizabeth Bishop
The art of coffee isn’t hard to master;
so many cups seem brewed with the intent
to be drunk that the cup is no disaster.
Drink coffee every day. Accept the fluster
Of early mornings, hours badly spent.
The art of coffee isn’t hard to master.
Then practice drinking longer, drinking faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to order. None of this will bring disaster.
I got up early once. And look! my last, or
next-to-last of three cupped coffees drank.
The art of coffee isn’t hard to master.
I drank two lattes, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some flavored Venti cappuccinos spent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
Even ordering now (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have mumbled. It’s evident
The art of coffee’s not too hard to master
Though it may look like (WRITE it!) like disaster.
Marcel Proust orders a gallon of coffee. “But, sir!” cries the barista, “that’d take seven of our biggest cups!” He downs all seven without hesitation, and his feat is met with great applause by the other patrons.
One of the baristas notices that the espresso machine is making a weird noise. She ignores it.
Faramir does not love the iced coffee for its chill, nor the latte for its froth, nor the to-go cup for its convenience. He just really needs his caffeine fix.
Text copyright © 2016 by Jill Poskanzer, Wilson Josephson, and Nora Katz
Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Harry Bliss
