The baristas’ lament (a poem of sorts)
A barista is the last hand on the coffee.
It goes through many hands.
Then it goes to my hands.
Then to my guest: my customer.
If it’s not perfect,
It’s not that if it’s not perfect,
it was ruined in my hands.
It’s that my hands,
and all the hands that came before,
are my duty.
The farmer may ruin the cultivation.
The roaster may ruin the roast.
The grinder may ruin the grind.
The water may ruin the brew.
But only I can taste the cultivation,
the roast, the grind, and the brew,
and I have hands and feet
and my mouth.
I must learn to taste.
I must learn what to do.
Then make it