What is so special

What is so special

And original about thought,

When it is so common.

Even standing in a queue

Watching the expression

Of the barista

When, after carefully manoeuvring

And manipulating the milk jug,

To create an intricate design,

On the top of the double shot,

Skinny cappuccino

She has her arm jogged

By the anxious to please, newby,

Who is learning the ropes,

Full of hopes

That soon she will be

The one dispensing drinks,

Instead of cleaning sinks

And dirty cups.

She turns in apology

As the cup rolls over,

Just a little, but enough

To allow a drizzle

Of dusted foam

To slip down the side,

Ruining the effect.

A quick dab from a grubby cloth

By the contrite neophyte

Gives no respite

And the barista blushes.

Heat flushes up,

From chest to cheek,

And she almost cried.

The customer looked surprised

But smiled and took it anyway.

What were they thinking.

How would we know.

Was it unique, a virgin birth.

Did she feel wounded.

Her ego challenged.

In that brief moment,

Was her first flash

Of inspiration one of

Murderous intent.

Was she bent on revenge,

Would she visit

Carnage on the world.

Sacrifice her future

And let her steam blow,

In a vicious explosion

Of caffeine fuelled

Invective.

No,

She smiled an embarrassed,

Softly spoken apology

And the line moved along.

In truth

This was a reflective question.

It may provoke response,

Demand a brief pause

In the unconscious flow,

Idling through the

Schematic connections,

On-going stimuli,

Barely registering their import.

Until this one moment,

When awareness

Breaks through

And we form a new thought,

Different from the sum

Of its

Constituent parts,

And more beautiful

Than the finest of arts,

The true meaning of humanity.

An ability to think and feel

Differently

About the same event,

Derive pleasure from pain,

And even if, in the future,

Something like this, happens again,

The outcome might just be

Sublimely unique,

And different.