There is a word, Sonder:
The sudden realisation that passers-by have a life,
As vivid and as complex as your own.
I rather like this word.
But when I tie my apron,
And don the name badge, (name spelt wrong
Not that you'd know.)
This privilege, I surrender.
'One should leave one's personal life, at home.'
So I make your coffee, 'extra hot'
But not so hot that it'll burn, and
Dissatisfy.
Not so hot that I become culpable
For you, devastatingly, losing the ability to speak.
And of course, this is not enough.
And, of course, you complain
As steam, screams, from your cup.
