She doesn’t want cinnamon.
She doesn’t want cream.
She doesn’t want a cheese sandwich.
She doesn’t want a chocolate brownie
or a chocolate biscuit or a chocolate muffin.
She wants the hot cross bun latte
she asked for with almond milk.
Her black, logo-less cap sinks
further down her forehead
to the sound of her mum shouting
over everyone else, laughing
at daft puns from the man behind her,
coo-ing at the toddler with carrot puff dust
stained around his lips, asking strangers
if they have kids and telling the world
they’ll miss them when they grow up;
them and their ridiculous orders.
© Carl Burkitt 2022