Latte

 

Latte

 

A Spanish latte - buy one, get one,

brings a cloying smack of evaporation,

white clouds that make milky mayhem

with bitter espresso, a veneer -

sip slowly through a straw and cheers.

The first comes in thin, flimsy plastic

and Dobson’s has got a crushed base,

a lop-sided reflex 190 degree case.

Threatens a slopped coffee tabletop

which is wobbling all over the place -

could take the slightest push,

the merest touch, watch and wait.

Or just crush it, get it over with,

let it lose the will to live;

Dobson’s spiteful pen with mean intent

rolls slowly along the gradient

and plummets forceful to the floor.

Ah, where are you now, Tom Sawyer?

How easily you were tricked,

knocking knees while you sit

as some old lady bowls a yorker -

so go - whitewash fences that border

long forgotten daisy-chain gardens.

Meanwhile, in other news,

Dame Helen Mirren - don’t care,

new Matt Smith drama somewhere,

Strictly Come Dancing, man overboard,

Bridgerton just leaves Dobson bored,

and Call the Midwife, fuck knows:

she’s got a new rose, got a new rose.

Nowhere near enough hubristic,

23,000’s a glib statistic

in milky foams that sit on top

and does he repent? Not a lot,

knows they’ll sit in the grate with a gin,

nourished by waste they’re swallowing

eyes crossed and pondering

differences between lattes and frappes,

Monday, Tuesday, happy days.

Dobson would like to feel annoyed,

but wonders what’s delaying the asteroid -

it’s been held up 65 million years.