The Punk Rock Philosopher
She slams portafilters like kick drums,
Callused fingers quick from bass strings.
Foam spirals into a latte,
Rote art on a timer.
A man leans in, “You’re pretty…”
She lets the hiss of steam drown him,
Thinking of Kant, whether beauty
Is ever more than a cheap perception.
Another man, with greedy eyes,
Asks for a seat in her smile.
She tunes him out, counting measures,
A concerto hidden inside distortion.
When her shift ends,
She wipes counters like clearing chalkboards.
Socratic echoes in the silence,
Bach running scales beneath her skin.
The city wants to press her under glass,
Label her: barista, beauty, background noise.
But she knows the score,
Only she can read the music she writes inside.
