Poem 49

I'm not the first to notice the proliferation of tip jars. As a former tipped employee, I can't blame folks earning minimum wage or slightly higher for putting the palm out there. Starbucks is such a place where I don't mind tipping; I tip if a guy makes me a Manhattan, so why not a mocha? I'm never sure how much to tip though, and it usually depends on how many singles I have. If I have none, I won't throw in the coins. If I have a few, I might tip a buck on a two-dollar beverage. I can't say this sits well with me, but I go with my gut and hope it works out.

The definite article in the title is intentional.

The Starbucks

Above a green apron and
framed by headset
his grin suggests mochas,
the new cinnamon dolce latte,
and yet I order drip coffee.
“Room for cream?”
“Sure. Yes.”

He trades my five for cup and change.
Ashamed of my bare order,
I add a dollar to the tip jar
like some kind of sweetener.
The sound of a nickel
and pennies hitting glass
would clatter over
steamer and grinder, I fear.

Too much?
Perhaps it will cover for
a woman who only uses debit,
or the teen with sweatshirt
and three bucks.
Or maybe it's time to let go.
Cash shrinks these days,
a dollar blending into quarters,
dimes with falling markets.
One day it might trade
at the value of a smile.