The Coffee Order of J. Alfred Prufrock
Let us order then, you and I,
When the morning is spread out against the sky
Like a coffee spilled across a counter;
Let us order, in certain half-deserted shops
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells:
Shops that follow like a tedious argument
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the shop the women come and go
The white steam that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The white steam that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the morning,
Lingered upon the pools of coffee in the machines,
Let fall upon its back the grounds that fall from bags,
Slipped on the counter, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a cold April morning,
Curled once about the espresso maker, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the white steam that slides along the walls,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the baristas that you meet;
There will be time to order and drink,
And time for all the drinks and days of hands
That lift and drop a muffin on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred orders and reorders,
Before the taking of a scone and tea.
In the shop the women come and go
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Should I?” and “Should I?”
Time to turn back and leave the store
With gaping yawn and weary eye–
(They will say: “How tired he looks today!”)
My morning coat, pulled up and colored gray,
My necktie rich and modest, but tucked away–
(They will say: “But how early he is up today!”)
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all–
Have known the mornings, evenings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
And I have known them all already, known them all–
The drinks that wake you up, and flood your veins,
And when I am woken, shaking in my coat,
When I am jumpy and wriggling all the day,
To spit out all the caffeine of my days and ways?
And what shall I order then?
And I have known the drinks already, known them all–
Drinks that are shook and whipped and iced
(But in the fluorescent light, sprinkled with light brown spice!)
Drinks that line the wooden counter, for those who are called,
Shall I say, I have gone at dawn through narrow streets
And watched the glass doors pushed open
By lonely baristas in aprons, leaning into the morning?…
I should have been a three-for-one petite vanilla scone deal
Shuffled into paper bags across silent counters.
And the afternoon, the evening, passes so restlessly!
Asleep… no, awake… or in between,
Stretched across the day, here between you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my drinks (cooled slightly off) brought in upon a platter,
I am no barista– and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my order flicker,
And I have seen the head Manager print my receipt, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the coffee, the tea,
Among the recyclables, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed my order onto one line,
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am T.S. Eliot, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”–
If one, drumming her fingers on the counter
Should say: “That is not what I said at all;
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunrises and the doorways and the sprinkled whip,
After the screenplays, after the laptops, after the bags that trail along the floor–
After this, and so much more?–
It is impossible to say just what I want!
But as if an overhead lamp threw the nerves in patterns on the wall:
Would it have been worth while
If one, drumming her fingers on the counter or pouring sugar into her cup,
And turning toward the window, should say:
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not a Manager, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant barista, one that will do
To brew a batch, start a cup or two,
Advise the manager, no doubt; an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of quick wit, but a bit caffeinated,
At times, indeed, almost hyper–
Almost, at times, the Customer.
I grow tired… I grow tired…
I shall order a cup to go.
Shall I order from the secret menu? Do I dare it come with whip?
I shall wear red flannel shirts, and work at the table near the outlet.
I have heard the mermaids ordering, each to each.
I do not think that they will order for me.
I have seen them adorning cups in people’s hands,
Combing their green hair against the white,
When the wind seems to blow their hair apart.
We have lingered in the shops long past the dawn
With mermaids wreathed in logos, white and green
Till we tip our steaming mugs back, and we drown.
