I respect my latte.
It warms me; my hands, my throat, my heart.
Its foam lingers on my lip, telling all the world it is mine.
It doesn’t mind a little biscotti now and then; neither do I.
We’re compatible that way. We’re faultless in
warm admiration, kind compliments.
My latte and me — we’re going steady now.
At least we will as soon as I can convince that
bad boy Espresso Shot that last night was all a