Morning Steam Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

The door swings open, a bell jittering,

and the day spills inside like spilt milk.

I am a patchwork of half-thoughts,

stitched together by too little sleep.

The barista shouts, “Venti caramel macchiato!”

Her voice, a ribbon cutting through fog,

a lighthouse beam in caffeine-starved waters.

I feel the words land,

sharp and sticky, all at once.

Around me, the hum of humanity,

heels click, laughter clatters like spoons in saucers.

I clutch my name on a cardboard sleeve

as if it’s the only tether to myself.

In this room of hopeful hands,

every refill feels like a fresh start,

every name called, a benediction.

The espresso steam curls toward heaven

but stays grounded, like all of us.

She calls again. Someone stirs awake.

The cup exchanges from palm to palm—

a small, fleeting ceremony of connection,

syrup-sweet and fragile as morning.

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