The vending machine sulks beside the stairs,
its glass a smudged cathedral of delay;
no spiral turns, no sugared mercy spares
the quarters pressed like prayers that cannot sway
the stubborn throat that holds its bright-lit feast.
A paper sign—OUT OF ORDER—hangs
askew, a secular veil for hunger’s priest,
while dust anoints the chrome in quiet pangs.
Yet children come with pockets warm and tight,
and office clerks with afternoons to lose;
they slip their coins through iron lips at night
to hear the clink their smaller hopes would choose.
Inside, a hoard of wishes hums and gleams—
a shrine of stalled and carbonated dreams.