Extra bitter hotmilk, coming right up.

Right after church growing up
it was the same order from the same chain:
very-very-very light, one sugar.
He told me to make sure I always said
the third 'very' so they'd get the point
but I never did and always felt the rebel
for limiting my emphasis to double.
He'd reach into the ash tray in his Eighty-something
Monte Carlo with only one working door
and drop a handful of coins in my lap
reminding me to bring back all the change.
I'd stand in line by myself, chest-high to the counter
with him still sitting in his car trying to memorize the sermon.
When the cashier slid the coffee across the counter
I'd shamefully slide the nickels and dimes
back in her direction, her face dropping a bit
until she realized that I was just as disappointed.
The people in line behind me must've felt bad
because they never seemed to mind the hold-up.
I pride myself on not once adding a donut
for myself to the order, not on his precious tab.
To this day I can't drink that swill enjoyably
swearing I taste burnt grinds from dirty pots
when I know damn well it's really something
quite different on my tongue.