What Hangs

The coil spun like it meant it,

like this time it would actually work,

like the dollar bill I fed it

was going to be honored.

The can hung there suspended,

half a revolution away from falling,

and I watched it like it might decide,

like machines had opinions,

like this one might suddenly

remember how to be generous.

Ten seconds.

Gravity's hesitation.

Then down.

But the anger didn't come down with it.

The anger stayed suspended,

spinning like the coil,

mechanical and pointless,

because there was nobody to be angry at—

just me alone in the break room,

mad at a machine

that was only doing what machines do:

taking what you give

and barely delivering back.

I took my dollar's worth.

But I'm still waiting for the rest.