The Vending Machine
by David Harbilas

    The vending machine in the hallway,
    its glass front revealing rows of Nestle,
    Hershey and Oreos. In the bottom right corner,
    compact-thin black boxes
    marked in red letters: condom 50 cents.

    The clumsy lovemaker's pants
    trip him at the ankles
    as he watches convenience free itself
    from the coils, fall into the basin
    to be collected. Bodies collect

    in the party halways, plastic cups in hands.
    The confetti of conversations is swept
    into the corner, and I,
    alone in the room next door,
    am able only to listen.

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