She picks up coffee at a little neighborhood cafe
Starbucks too oppressively corporate
She pours on the milk and multiple sugars
Her face lights up as she tells the cashier, “Have a nice day.”
Like a candle, she imparts her light to those nearby
A routine prayer passes between her lips
Before she starts up her gas-electric hybrid Accord
And with a whisper she starts to fly.
But not before letting the elderly Polish woman go ahead
She’s not always this obsequiously polite
Truth be told, sometimes the sweetness sticks in her mouth
Like the juice of a cherry popsicle, syrupy and red.
One day the repressed rage and hidden discontent will surface
And she will make the nearest man miserable
Be it husband, father, brother, or lover
And will leave him feeling confused and nervous.