older and wiser.

when the pairs of parent and child
come into the coffeeshop, i take their
orders from a superior and idealized distance,
applying an artificial smile when they
repeat–twice–orders i grasped the first time.
and as i am digging trenches in ice cream
for the child’s milkshake, i am pitting the calories
of the drink i will blend for her against her BMI.
and pulling shots of espresso for the parent—
double, of course—i am watching disgustedly as
an eleven year old entertains herself with a phone. 
i swipe the credit card; the child’s eyes never move.
she doesn’t even see me, once. their entire visit
is punctuated by the beep of her text messages— 
what could she possibly be saying?
they leave, flustered, distracted parent, the child.
the fathers are usually pudgy and apologetic,
the mothers tense and thin. the children—
fledgling almost teenagers—are glazed over
in baby fat, lost in a foreign country. they speak
in blue screens and finger-sized alphabets.
nobody bothers to attempt translation
i want to flip the sullen, fat children off;
i want to shake the mothers, watch their earrings swing. 
a beep—i look at the counter: my computer,
my cellphone, open, glowing blue,  buzzing with
communication from other places, all immediate. 
i stop working to reply to my  messages.
what could i possibly be saying?