The hospital hallway is salted with dust

The hospital hallway is salted with dust,

and the air in the vents has a flavor of rust.

At two in the morning, the only real soul

is the yellow light hum of the snack patrol.

I fed it a dollar, all crinkled and soft,

and watched as the metal coil lifted aloft.

The pretzels moved forward, then hung by a thread,

a bag full of salt and a sense of dread.

It’s caught on the corner, just out of the reach,

like a lesson the world is trying to teach.

You put in the work and you pay the full price,

and then something just sticks in the cold of the ice.