III. Vending Machine by Grey Held
Let me do It!,
he shouts.
I take the coins from my pocket,
and he counts out the quarters—three,
four:
I pick him up so he can slide
the money in. He pushes the buttons:
K—I
whisper,
10— I
whisper. Out falls
the package of peanut butter crackers.
He grabs it from me, yanks
the little red string that opens the
wrapper
and it falls to the floor. He unglues
the top half of a sandwich,
scrapes the peanut butter off
with his teeth, his tongue, polishing
the cracker into the soggy circle
he hands to me. Your half, he
says
and I take it.