Clouds in your coffee

The tower was seventy-eight storeys, each with a
glass ceiling.
Rebecca's office was on the seventy-nineth.
Ashraf was a barista in the concession on the atrium
mezzanine.

"Skinny latte, Rican roast, vanilla shot?"
"Thank you, Ashraf "

Toby was a lazy climber. Daddy bought colleagues like rungs.
At his desk, the physio massaged Toby's craning neck.

"Cappuccino, cinnamon dust?"
"Hurry up, man!"

A plot was stirring.
A sense of entitlement sweetened by complacency,
discretion puffed in an air-head of milk-foam.

The lift stopped on thirty-nine.
An orange crate with Toby's name, in gold:
security to see him down and out.

On exit, the mezzanine was silent;
then someone smashed a glass,
fragments rained like cinnamon dust.

It's often the smallest things.

"Skinny latte, Rican roast, vanilla shot?"
"Thank you, husband."


With thanks to Carly Simon. 

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Mystery of Miss Terry

There's something undead in Miss Terry,
it's clear as unclear are her eyes.
There's a demon within her,
a terrible sinner
intent on such shock and surprise.
Yes, there's something possessing Miss Terry.

We have to exorcise Miss Terry.
She cannot be wandering untracked,
the street is no place
for a zombie to pace
in its heinous carnivorous act.
How can we recover Miss Terry?

Only one thing can rescue Miss Terry,
And we found the right magical cure:
we needed no Pope,
just laid-off the dope
and late-night TV servings of gore!
In future, we'll know the mystery -
there was nothing possessing Miss Terry.

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018