Rolling gears of the vending machine vacuum dollars into the slotted abyss.
The acceptance of currency is met with a robotic click,
Reminiscent of the noise automatic doors make when sliding.
“But when motion pauses,
Where does the time go?”
Mayor Winesburg contemplates.
His reflection in the vending machine’s glass
Is painted over by
Cheetos’Orange and Doritos’ Blue.
Until he selects
G7, on the keypad. Watches a coil push a package of Pop-Tarts forward,
That drops to the bottom with a thud. At eye-level a dark hole
Frames his obesity. The Pop-Tarts are gone. Behind his depilated skull
An exit sign hums. He waddles down the hall, his feet shuffle across
The marble floors like blades gliding over ice.
A violent caterwaul echoes from the police officer’s room.
There’s laughter and gossip behind the School Board’s closed door.
“Did you hear Mr. Finco slept with Miss Anderson?”
“Too bad they can’t fire him.”
“Yeah, damn unions.”
Mayor Winesburg acknowledges that public service
Is nothing more than an annoyance to these people.
It’s a reacting sigh,
After lunch break is interrupted
With a question, or greeting.
He sits at his desk, eats the Pop-Tarts. Crumbs vandalize his man-breasts,
But the purpose of the sugary treat was meant to stimulate. Not soil his clean
Bosom. Using the sudden increase of energy, as a catalyst, he reaches for the City Budget Plan.
He thinks of the economic class he took in college and how it took three attempts to pass it. “I’ve Come a long way.” He says aloud.
Outside on the sidewalk, he views a mother of three waiting at the bus-stop. Their exhales collect into a fog, which blankets their stoic faces. The bus is running late, making her late to drop the kids off at the sitter, and also late to work.
Mayor Winesburg closes the blinds. He shivers a bit and turns the heat up in his office.
He likes to keep it warm in-case someone visits. He thinks the tax payers
Would prefer it that way.