Five dollars for the coffee handed over slow

Five dollars for the coffee, handed over slow.

The bill was soft, a gentle flow.

Not crisp, not new, not stiff and neat,

but worn and thin, a silent treat.

The edges curled, the green ink pale,

a map of hands, an ancient trail.

It smelled like pockets, maybe dust,

a thousand transactions, slow rust

of human touch.

The president's face, a softened blur,

as if the paper knew what were

the secrets held, the things it bought.

A quiet history, softly caught.