Your Name in the Vending Machine

I found your name behind the glass, in coils of chrome and light.

A snack-sized fate with foil shine that flickered late at night.

The hallway hummed fluorescent blues; the floor was mopped and clean.

And all my choices narrowed to a letter and a screen.

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“Exact change only,” said the slot—like hearts that charge a fee;

I patted lint and copper cents for fragments left of me.

The keypad waited patient-cold for the courage typed in code.

While tiny prices measured out the worth of what we owed.

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Your name was set at A-13, a twist of steel away.

Half-tilted in the spiral mouth, not free but posed to sway.

I pressed the numbers slow as vows; the coil began to turn—

A silver serpent is losing you, a lesson set to learn.

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It shuddered—stopped. You didn’t drop. You dangled, want and tease,

a gravity that almost loved, a wind that wouldn’t please.

Behind me, soda ghosts went off, a hiss like jealous steam;

I shook the frame with both my hands and bargained with the machine.

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The glass returned my pleading face, a double I half-knew—

the kind that pays and pays again for what will not come through.

A custodian pushed by and said, “They stick when coils are thin;

put something sturdy in the slot—sometimes it dislodges then.”

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So I fed hope another coin, then fed it one more try;

I called your line by different names—by memory, by why.

At last, the spiral spun again, the stubborn gravity,

and what I wanted tumbled down—less prophecy, more fee.

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Your name arrived in plastic ribs, not myth but wrapper crack;

I held it like a rescued star, then read the label back.

Ingredients: a list of sweet, some salt, a touch of ache,

and may contain the kind of nuts that make a good heart break.

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I took a bite of what I’d bought, and found it wasn’t you—

just hunger dressed in shiny ink, a barcode for “almost true.”

I laughed the way a midnight laughs—tired, honest, clean—

and tossed what wouldn’t feed me to the bottom of the machine.

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The glass and I made a truce at last; I pressed “Return” for change.

A clink of small, forgiven coins fell bright and mild and strange.

I pocketed the lesson whole: some loves are built to lean—

Your name can glow and still be trapped inside a vending machine.

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Next time I pass that humming box, I’ll keep my hands at ease;

Not every lit-up choice is love, not every want a please.

I’ll save my sturdy, human cash for bread and breath and seen,

For windows I can open—not this hungry, glowing screen.