The glass jar sits a silent plea

The glass jar sits, a silent plea,

by the coffee machine for all to see.

I watch the barista, quick and bright,

then slide my change into the light.

A sticky dollar, folded small and neat,

rests on a bed of copper, bittersweet.

Each coin a tiny, metal sound,

a small offering on hallowed ground.

There's a dried brown ring,

where a forgotten cup had been,

a faint smudge on the glass,

reflecting what's within.

Another gesture, quick and small,

a silent hope for one and all.