The barista held out two different-sized cups
and asked, Which medium would you like?
They’re both mediums?! I shouted this.
Medium is whatever you want it to be, she said.
It is not acceptable to reach over a counter
and kiss someone, and as such it should
not be acceptable to write a poem about
a barista without her permission.
I thought of her in traffic today, how she
flipped my worldview with an interrogative,
like here I am at exit 31A, no closer to
deciphering this new blueprint—
I will find her tomorrow.
She will draw my face in a latte.