Waiting for the File to Load

The vending machine is holding a bag of chips hostage,

wedged against the glass at a hopeless, forty-degree tilt.

I’m sitting in a chair that smells like industrial sage,

carrying this heavy, unearned bag of somatic guilt.

Then the nurse says a name that starts with a 'D'

and my heart hits my ribs like a bird in a cage.

I fumbled my phone, watched it drop, watched it flee

my grip, and now there’s a crack across the image of my dog.

A hairline fracture right through his wagging tail.

Everything is broken or pending or stuck in the fog.

My future is a PDF behind a firewall, a digital veil,

and I’m just staring at the jagged glass, waiting to fail.