Writer's Cramp 9-28 40 Lines

What if you couldn't function without your coffee? What would you trade?

I stumbled out the door, a heavy freight,
And steered my vessel toward my destined fate:
Cafe De' Swill, the shrine of roasted bean,
Where life begins, and tragedy is screened.

I reached the counter, hunched and tight,
The Barista, Bart, looked pale in the morning light.
A Venti pour, four shots, no room, I need it now,
A silent plea that crosses every brow.

He moved the cup beneath the copper spout,
And I prepared to pull the wallet out.
My ritual complete, my hand went low,
To feel the leather where the greenbacks grow...

But there was nothing. Air. A hollow space.
A horror dawned upon my sleepy face.
I slapped my hip--the cell phone must be there!
My digital assistant, sleek and fair!

"Bart," I whispered, and my voice was raw,
"I suffer under some forgotten law.
My resources... they are currently at home.
My plastic friends have ceased their friendly roam."

I pointed at the rich, black liquid there,
The perfect coffee floating in the air.
"You know me, Bart. You know my deep desire.
You know the danger when I lack the fire."

He stared at me, his face devoid of grace,
The classic 'Bart-at-6-AM' dead space.
He was a writer, dark and slacked-jawed,
Whose modernist romance was utterly flawed.

"Bart," I stated, shifting my approach,
"I know your novel needs coached.
I know the plot twist where the hero cries...
It lacks direction in the reader's eyes.

I cannot pay with cash, but I can trade:
A single, brilliant marketing cascade."
He slid the cup across the sticky wood.
"You drink that fast, then tell me if it's good.

I didn't sip. I inhaled. I drank it whole.
The warmth rushed through my body and my soul.
"Bart," I said, my voice now clear and strong,
"I think your hero's beard is slightly wrong."

Lines: forty