What It Asks

The ceramic jar appeared today.

Not the small one. This one's made to be seen.

A handwritten sign. The worker's way

of asking without words. In between

their tasks, their tight shoulders,

I read the confession: that wages don't work.

That the system needs younger and older

customers to bridge what employers shirk.

I put a dollar in.

The jar was heavy already. Full

of other people's guilt. I spin

the thought: my five dollars pull

toward something. But not enough.

The worker thanks me anyway,

like it matters. Like this stuff—

like my dollar today

will equal an hour tomorrow.

The jar sits there. Will sit

tomorrow. Will gather sorrow

and copper. Will never quite fit

the gap between what they earn

and what they need. I know it.

The jar knows it. But we return

to this moment, and I go with it.