What I Couldn't Give

The barista's eyes went to the jar

when she saw me swipe my card.

I knew what she was calculating—

whether I'd go near or far.

The tip jar on the counter,

her name written in marker.

But I pressed no number—

no addition, no spark.

She made my drink without saying,

which was worse than if she'd said.

Silence is the paying

price of shame widespread.

I took the cup and left.

I heard the register close.

I heard the sound of the next customer

stepping forward to be served.

I won't go back there soon.

Not until I've forgotten

the way she looked, the moon

of her mouth, the lesson rotten.

Not until I've convinced myself

that her silence meant nothing,

when we both know

it meant everything.