Two-Buck Tip

By Katharine

Warnings: Rated G.

Affectionate pseudo-poetic ramblings, written just after I got home from work tonight.

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I hope you know, good sir.

I hope you know that a two-buck tip on a fifty-dollar tab

isn’t anywhere near a polite ten percent,

or even a rude five.

I hope you know that a two-buck tip won’t buy my dinner,

much less car insurance and college tuition

and a new work shirt.

I hope you know that any other server

would have taken one look at that two-buck tip,

and ever after returned the favor.

I hope you know that two bucks’ worth of service

would have spoiled your lovely wife’s

candlelit birthday dinner.

Good sir, I hope you know.

I hope you know that your two-buck tip

didn’t cross my mind or dim my smile

when I lit those birthday candles.

I hope you know that a two-buck tip hardly guarantees

that I’ll remember your favorite drink—but I always do.

(SOS Brandy Manhattan on the rocks.)

I hope you know that I am kind to you

despite that two-buck tip,

because I know of no other way to be.

I hope you know that I knew you’d leave a two-buck tip,

but I made sure you left tonight

feeling like a million bucks.

But you probably don’t know, good sir.

So good night, and thanks for the two bucks.

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Dedicated to that dear old two-buck tipper, one of my nicest (and cheapest) customers.