Eyes brim from the rim,
Mocha dances on her lips
as she watches his waltzes -
tray in hand amongst the tables.

A curt, but polite, nod
for the gentlemen
who regard his turns with disdain.

A sneer as each cup is placed
in front of them, handle
turned just so...
pick up can be
manoeuvred without delay.

They turn quickly from his
pirouettes and sweeping bow,
worrying about his sexuality.

A smile tangos into the froth,
and she laughs at his practised act.

Though his sweet syrup is poured
never endingly into multi-coloured vessels
raised by serviced crowds,
his honey is reserved
for the polka girl -

who he calls 'Coffee Bean Eyes' -
in the corner of the café,
with her cappuccino smile,
and milky latte heart.

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