The Jar on the Counter

TIPS on masking tape, the marker thick,

two quarters and a dime inside the glass —

a paper clip that hitched its ride and clicked

to the bottom, settling in the brass.

She checks it after every cup.

Not hoping — just the reflex of the thing,

like checking if a door is locked when you're already up

the stairs. The habit keeps on happening.

The man in the coat stayed five whole minutes

talking about the roast — the altitude,

the farm, the washing process. He knows his limits

were elsewhere: left without adjusting his attitude

or his wallet. Her face held.

She picked the rag up and wiped the bar

down, same as every morning, nothing to be felled

by. I'd tipped before I sat. The jar

already had my fifteen percent,

invisible on a receipt somewhere.

I stood there anyway. Some bent

thing in my chest I couldn't square —

not guilt. Not anger. More the feel

of having done the right thing and the right thing

doing nothing back.

The dime.

The paper clip.

The coat already gone.