Cappuccino Prayer

Full of a morning sermon

In their famous brown tunics

A group of monks on the counter

With their spoons and halos and music.

"One 16th century friar, large, please,"

Says every customer.

It's my turn; she doesn't even have to make it.

I find a table in the corner:

I like to watch the rain lash and fall

Across the large windows,

To see the trees give up their leaves.

I no longer bother making eye contact with guys.

It's me and my friar, alone.

This is me praying, or whatever.

Then I start to cough; sneeze.

This monk tastes different.

I feel I could pull his beard continuously from my throat.

Perhaps he is the male version of Maria Von Trapp

And only wants to sing his happy, hairy song.

I close my eyes...

The friars, my love,

Are just frumpy, thumpy men

Waiting to shine and be empty again.