The vending machine has a low sick moan

The vending machine has a low, sick moan,

rattling the glass like a hollow bone.

A bag of pretzels hits the tray below,

the only progress I'm allowed to know.

Across the hall, a woman starts to break,

a jagged sound that makes the tiles ache.

I’m filling in the blanks of a cheap magazine,

lost in the space of what the words could mean.

Cat, dog, sun. The three-letter list.

Everything else is a blur or a mist.

The clock is a stutter, a twitch on the wall,

waiting for the shoes to drop in the hall.