Oh how I longed for reprieve, no wait.
Yet, here I stand with mouth agape.
I blink, I blink, I cannot think.
Although I have money, I can’t purchase my drink.
I feel angry, especially annoyed.
This is no R2-D2 droid.
This is a broken contraption circa ’85.
A vending machine that is hardly alive.
I once had expectations high.
I believed, when the pocket change caught my eye.
Now the sign taunts me, tells me to seek fountain H20.
“Out of Order,” it laughs; I kick the machine and go.
A poem for National Poetry Writing Month (#NaPoWriMo). The prompt? “Write about your feelings when there is an out of order sign on a vending machine.”