She sits and sips her festive latte,
the kind with flavoured syrup like cinnamon
or gingerbread or glittered winterberry.
The froth is shaped like Santa’s beard
and she can’t stop flicking through
a notebook her eyebrows seem to hate.
Her phone rings, her tongue tuts,
her finger presses the green button.
She says things like Forecasting and VAT
and doodles a dead reindeer on a napkin.
© Carl Burkitt 2022