Stuck

Three in the morning and the laundromat hums

while I wait for the dryer to cough up the crumbs.

I put in my quarters and I pressed B-14,

and watched the black spiral inside of the machine.

It turned half a circle and then it just stopped,

leaving the chips where they shouldn't have dropped.

Hanging by a corner of plastic and air,

a three-ounce frustration I can’t help but stare.

My face is a ghost in the glass of the door,

hovering over the pretzels on the bottom-most floor.

I’m hungry and tired and the spiral won't budge,

and the machine is a god I’m not allowed to judge.