The vending machine is dark

The vending machine is dark

behind its glowing front.

I can see the rows—

empty, empty, empty, empty—

each slot a promise that didn't keep.

I haven't eaten since breakfast.

The meeting ran long.

The meeting ran into the next meeting.

The day got away from me

the way days do when nobody stops them.

At 6 PM the cafeteria locked its doors.

The woman behind the counter

looked sorry for me,

but she locked them anyway.

Now I stand in front of plastic and glass,

reading the labels of things

that used to be there:

Cheez Crackers, Granola, Peanuts, Trail Mix.

The dust shows where they sat,

rectangles of absence,

proof of something edible

that is now somewhere else.

I push the coin slot.

It clicks and refuses.

I push again.

The machine does nothing.

It's past its hours.

It's done with me.

I walk back to my desk

and pretend the hunger

is something I'll handle later,

is something that doesn't matter,

is something the body makes up

when it's ignored long enough.

But the body keeps

its own clock,

and it's not finished

reminding me

that some things

can't be skipped.