Pete Sampras served me a cup of tea
in Starbucks today and I made a joke
about it being ace to see him and he tried
messing about with the words deuce and juice,
which didn’t quite land, but he seemed nice enough.
I watched him for the rest of his shift. His safe
hands passed out flat whites and slices of sponge
cake to people who didn’t even flinch.
I watched his thick, hairy arms carry the weight
of a tray stacked with four teapots, six mugs,
and five plates peppered with biscuit crumbs.
I watched him nibble the leftovers of a kid’s banana
when he thought no-one was looking. His eyes
rolled back to between sets at Wimbledon.
His feet tapped on the floor and I could see
a white towel wrapped around his neck
as he plotted his next move. A customer tapped
his shoulder and explained the toilet was blocked.

Carl Burkitt 2024