Next Tuesday

what with the weather being lousy

and the nights drawing in

and the rent being due

and the electricity bill hitting the floor

and going through the roof at the same time

and feeling in need of a mid-morning pick me up

to shore up my morale,

I’m going to put on my rain gear

head into town

walk into Starbucks

and smile at the barista.

 

She’ll smile back

because it’s good to smile

and I’ll order a grande mocha 

with an extra shot

a whirl of whipped cream 

chocolate sprinkles on top

and to get that sugar hit up and running pronto

I’ll have a slab of Chocolate Crunch™

and no, I won’t be taking it away.

 

When she sets it on the counter

I’ll give her everything I have

in my pockets.

Sixteen pence in shrapnel,

three washers, one old bus ticket,

and the business card some psychic medium

keeps posting through my door 

promising an end to all my worldly ills.

How a man of such prodigious talents

wasn’t stopped dead in his tracks

the instant he smashed into the I don’t think so, sunshine 

wall of scepticism just inside the front gate, I’ll never know,

but that’s another story for another day.

 

Back in Starbucks

the barista looks puzzled.

She counts up the coins,

hands me back the washers and the bus ticket,

slips the business card into the pocket of her jeans,

smiles,

and tells me I still owe her £5.74.

 

I smile back

because no-one likes an angry poet

and I take a deep breath

and I tell her

that as Starbucks has paid no corporation tax

on UK profits for the past three years

I reckon they owe me a couple of hospitals

an old people’s home

and an upgrade of our creaking transport system.

 

Minus £5.74.

 

The barista goes to get the manager.

I take a big slurp of mocha

and a huge bite of Chocolate Crunch™

to keep ahead of the game,

and when he arrives and asks what’s going on,

and knowing no-one likes an angry poet,

I give him a big chocolatey grin

and explain about the tax.

Then, before he can whip it away,

I have another gulp of mocha

grab the rest of the Chocolate Crunch™

and stuff it in my gob.

 

He threatens to call the police.

 

There’s a long pause.

Partly because my mouth’s so full of chocolate

I can barely speak,

but mainly because my response

when it comes

is going to be so densely packed 

with fury and expletives

we can’t let it loose till well after the watershed

accompanied by some kind of warning

because all this smiling is hard work

and yes, no-one likes an angry poet

but I’m a poet who loves words loves people

and believes some things are worth getting angry about

and if you don’t see the difference 

between those two

then I probably lost you

soon after I put my rain gear on

back at the start.

 

And this is my poem.

And in my poem

the customers who’ve been in here with me

chatting, reading, sheltering from the rain,

they stand as one.

The baristas, tired of working

on their feet all day

throw their aprons to the floor

seize the takings

and march out of the door

and we make our way 

from branch to branch 

all through town

filling the streets

emptying the tills 

into a large sack 

which we deliver to the nurses up at A&E.

 

We hand out lattes to bus drivers,

fire espressos and carrot cake

into the mouths of homeless people,

give paninis to the unemployed.

Coffee mugs in hand,

chocolate smeared across our faces,

fired up by our belief we’re all in this together

and that an injury to one is an injury to all

we storm Vodafone HQ and Amazon UK

for a quiet chat

about the money they owe us,

and as the winter sun

breaks through the clouds

and the windows of the City

are a seamless wall of gold,

I look around,

one poet in a sea of millions

 

and by god, we’re smiling.

 

 

 

© Steve Pottinger. 

http://stevepottinger.co.uk