Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas

In the Line at Starbucks

I’m in the line at Starbucks waiting for my afternoon
high like all the other ‘off to do errands’ cars in front
and behind me and I’m remembering all the lines
I’ve waited in over the years, and how impatient
and patient I’ve been depending on what it is I’m waiting for

and I’m thinking it’s so much easier to wait for something you don’t want like the results of an X-ray that portends bad news or the yearly mammogram showing some new visitor in your otherwise contented skin, whereas the wait for a cup of coffee sets the afternoon right. That first sip

filling your mouth with a dose of heated joy—and it’s the time of the day when the sun looks like a bursting golden flower hovering in the sky as I spy a cluster of gathered
glory across the road, a field of blooming sunflowers

their soft petals flittering in the wind bathed in brilliance—

the sun bursting through a cloud like the god of light. And I am being patient behind the wheel as I offer up my order to the guy on the other end of the microphone who asks about my day and says to move up in line after I’ve ordered my latte. But I’m wondering about

the doings of the person in front of me as they too
are following in this quiet single-file line of etiquette.
We are all looking forward to having a hot drink in our hands before we move on again to the next line, wherever that may be, and just for a minute, we’re like those sunflowers huddled

together opening to the warmth—and the attendant smiles with a potent grin as if he knows he is like the god of coffee, But as I go to pay, he says, “oh, the person ahead of you took care of your order,” to which I say, “thank you,” bowing
my head in true sunflower fashion offering my card

to pay for the person behind me, to which the god of coffee comments, what a gratifying job he has, his grin carrying me through to another task as I drive off, my fingers holding onto the unexpected kindness of the last

person, I will no doubt never meet.

 

Aunt Susan

Today when her cuckoo clock strikes
the hour, it reminds me of being with
 
her again, back in the garden where
dandelions grew with a hint of yellow
 
streaming through the air, where she
still waits lounging in her old plastic
 
chair, a cigarette in her right hand.
And the clappers dangle and clang
 
from the golden chain counting hours
with a pause in eternity and the time
 
before she left. When we'd walk to the river,
our feet wet over the smooth pebbles.
 
Both of us reaching below the coolness
of ripples as we'd hollow the water for toads,
 
tipping our glass jars into the water.
We'd watch them swim in, only for us
 
to free them again, where she taught me
there is joy in the act of letting go.

 

Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas is a recent graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts, MFA in Writing program. She’s an eleven-time Pushcart nominee, seven-time Best of the Net nominee. In 2021 her latest collection Alice in Ruby Slippers was shortlisted for the Eric Hoffer Grand Prize and awarded Honorable Mention in the Poetry Category.