Linen

The machine is blinking red.

The plastic slot is far too thin.

I want to buy a loaf of bread

but it won't let the paper in.

It feels like cloth, or heavy hair,

beaten by the water's weight.

A five-dollar ghost of wear and tear,

entering the world too late.

I smooth it on the counter edge

to find a spine that isn't there.

It sags across the plastic ledge

and sways in the conditioned air.