By Jason Tobin
Twenty fingers precariously attempt
to convince a stubborn machine
of consequence to free the misshaped
Twenty-five cent piece.
Onlookers, mostly silent, show little to
no interest as friendly consultants
meander in and out of the laundromat.
One of the spectators attempts
to hide nips of malt liquor, but the scent
permeates the air.
As long as the small boss/madam does
not raise an eye (which she has yet to do)
I will down the swill, she
transmits without saying so much as
a slurred word.
Outside the temperature continues to
cascade, and eventually the twenty fingers
find a guaranteed warranty to alleviate
the struggle to fix the broken apparatus.
Clutching at Straws 