Coins in the slot The spiral rotates

Coins in the slot. The spiral rotates.

Nothing comes down.

Just the mechanical whir and the fluorescent light

showing me my money caught between the coils,

inaccessible.

I'm at the airport at midnight.

My flight doesn't leave for three hours.

The restaurant closed at ten.

I'm standing in front of this machine,

watching my reflection in the glass—

tired, stuck, hungry.

The machine was honest about it.

It took what I gave and gave nothing back.

No false promises. No pretending.

Just the clear mathematics of loss.

I can't walk away.

I just stand here, watching the money spiral,

unable to accept it, unable to do anything

except wait for the next flight,

the next terminal, the next machine

that might work, knowing it probably won't.