AFTER WORK STARBUCKS

I don't want to go home so I've come to Starbucks. It's vaguely relaxing. And warmer, I suppose. No-one's going to bother me here.

So. Perfect timing then for a bit of good old-fashioned, whining hypocrisy. Yep. Not been hypocritical for a while - a bit of the old say-one-thing-and-do-another might at least humour me. Here it comes: 

I think Starbucks should pay taxes in the country in which they operate. Like this one, for example. Yet here I am, after work, with a cup of the old English breakfast. Steaming.

I sat here and wrote a quick poem. I think I'll call it: After Work Starbucks

After Work Starbucks

A rush of steam

A clash of cups

A baby howls

At waking up

A lady on

a mobile phone

To someone 

In a warmer home

A quiet couple

Stop and start

Yet share a table

Miles apart

A laptop screen

An open book

A spreadsheet

Needs a second look

Some quiet jazz

A wooden chair

A girl flicks out

Her auburn hair

A coffee cup

A stirring stick

A pot of whirling

Cream so thick

A sugar high

A tax-free till

The coffee fuels

Seattle's thrill

Yet somehow we

Seem further ground

Than beans or euros

Crushing round,

For in this cold of

Clashing cups

We fail to howl

On waking up