Down our nowhere road, past the rusted cars
rolling in their sea of weeds and a barn inclined
toward lolling, there is a shed
with (in front) a vending machine
filled with every color Gatorade
in 20-ounce plastic bottles, buzzing off-on-off-
on-off and listing.

Someone has scrounged a handful of decayed
ten-by-something corner brackets
and bolted the machine to the rickety shed
where the latest litter of feral kittens
huddle in dirt and gravel, still nursing.

Watching first for cats (also Max
the black dog), pull slowly up, two wheels
off the road, and take a chance
with your repeatedly smoothed-out dollar.
You might be tempted to prompt any reluctance
from the machine with a smack or a bump:
I caution against this:

We are all depending on a fragile
compilation of uprights, here.

– Lisa Creech Bledsoe