The Label Changed

The label was different Monday.

Same jar — the mason jar

with the crack in the tape at the bottom —

but different handwriting.

The old label was printed.

Someone had taken time.

This one was written fast,

slightly uphill on the right side,

the letters tightening toward the end

like the pen was running out

of something.

I put in the dollar.

She didn't look up.

She's been there every weekday

for over a year. I know her name

because it was on the schedule once,

not because she told me.

I thought about it on the train.

Not in a concerned way —

just the way your brain fills dead time

with whatever it caught.

The handwriting. The angle.

The not looking up.

The crumpled ones inside

and the two quarters on top.