The barista wasn’t actually called Thor,
though he certainly might have been,
fair but strong Nordic features and
long platinum hair pulled back from
his face, grasping the espresso-machine
handle as if it were the fabled hammer–
godlike in his strength and beauty,
the mythic illusion marred only
by the incongruous sweatshirt
from an American university,
where he’s probably the star
of the rowing team or something.
And the cappuccino was good as well.
T. Allen Culpepper