E-9

The hospital hallway is dim

and the air smells of cleaner and fear.

I’m filled to the shivering brim

with the things that I don't want to hear.

I feed in a dollar that’s torn,

the rollers they shudder and complain.

The number pad, greasy and worn,

reflects like a puddle of rain.

The pretzels are caught on the coil,

a corner of plastic held fast.

Like all of my labor and toil,

the reward is a ghost of the past.

It dangles and sways in the hum,

a salt-covered prize in the cage.

I wait for the hunger to come

and replace all this hollowed-out rage.