Gripe

In a quiet café, steam curls like thought,
A gripe rises, soft, like mist on a London morn.
The tea’s too weak, the scone a tad too scone‑like,
And the wifi sighs, refusing to load the news.

We mutter over croissants, our grievances polite,
A British grumble, wrapped in a courteous sigh—
Not a shout, but a murmur, a gentle protest,
As if the world might hear if we spoke just low enough.

Yet beneath the veneer of stiff upper lip,
Lies a truth: we cherish the art of the gripe,
For in each small complaint we find connection,
A shared chuckle over the weather’s relentless drizzle.

So let the gripe be our quiet anthem,
A tea‑stained sonnet of mild dissent,
For in the humble art of complaining,
We find the warmth of camaraderie,
And the subtle joy of being heard—
Even if only by the barista, who nods,
And refills our cup without a word.