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The kid at the counter didn't even look up,

just took the box with its burnt-plastic smell.

I wanted to tell him how it died in the cup,

how the motor screamed like a soul in a well.

Instead, I watched him slap a sticker on the side—

a bright orange square that says 'Damaged' in bold.

It’s a quiet relief, a place for the failure to hide,

now that the box is no longer mine to hold.

I sat in the car while the notification chimed,

my bank account swelling by forty-nine bucks.

It’s funny how easily a mistake is timed

and traded away for a few digital lucks.

I’m still sitting here in the heat of the lot,

looking at the spot where the box used to be.

Sometimes you get back exactly what you brought,

but you never get back the time you lost for free.