Coin Return

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.