Drove home the back roads tonight,
hair smelling of burnt espresso and sweat, 
radio surprisingly silenced for once as my mind reeled.
Mile by mile I traveled while a year’s worth 
of sepia-steeped vignettes played back like a flipbook:
shaken iced matcha lattes, sweet and foamy rich;
strawberry acai lemonade orders received 
in English, sign language and Spanish;
cracking up with coworkers ’til we were in stitches
as a barista lost a battle with the whipped cream.

Felt a lot like Prufrock, measuring the last year 
of my life in coffee spoons, but my kind of spoons 
were doled out the last 365 days 
by however many my neurospicy brain 
decided to give me for any particular day.
Often, I’d wake up lacking in the spoons
to even lift the blanket off my still-weary body
and begin the day.  Other days, I might have 
seven or eight to get me through; 
I could ration those to be pleasant for a shift,
greeting guests and fellow baristas with a smile,
just collapsing into bed once I got home from work.
Might seem a little odd, to people who function typically,
why I can also measure the past year in nighttime showers,
but self-awareness saved me from those pesky
morning panic attacks when I had too much to do 
to get ready for work, even when all it might have been
was a quick shower with teeth brushed, face washed,
makeup done simply and hair tossed up in a ponytail.

Continued along the winding country lanes
from the first day of my second year in the barista life
and the flipbook begins to slow its pace as it gains
a mental soundtrack made famous 
in one of my most beloved Broadway favorites:
How do you measure, measure a year…
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee…
How about love?
Measure in love.

Some people who have gotten so far 
in reading this poem might now begin
to understand why my parents surprised me
with an ice cream cake to celebrate 
my work anniversary,
namely since there truly have not been 
that many similar years’ worth 
of milestones about which to speak,
let alone be joyful.  But I’m grinning tonight,
swirling vanilla through chocolate 
with my last spoon for today.
I’ll smile until sleep sweeps me away,
for I’m measuring my year as a barista
in a heaping, proud spoonful of self-love.