The Gratuity

The glass is smudged where the light hits the rim,

a bucket for the mercy of the afternoon crowd.

The hope of the rent is looking fairly slim,

while the espresso machine hums steady and loud.

A man in a pinstripe suit leans on the slate

and drops a single nickel with a hollow, silver sound.

He waits for a bow, or a change in my state,

but I’m looking at the floor where the grit is found.

At the very bottom, folded into a square,

is a five-dollar bill that someone left for dead.

A quiet, small secret that’s sitting right there,

keeping the ledger from turning to red.