Ode to the D7

Standing at the behemoth to progress,
glassy-eyed, stomach-rumbling beyond help,
I stare in confusion at numbers and letters
written like a Chinese menu.
Starry-eyed and in a trance, I am
having a mystical experience as I am forced
to choose. Searching for coins produces crumpled
dollar, when inserted face up rolls back and forth,
back and forth, unwilling to cooperate. Frantic,
devoid of patience, I empty my bag in search
of coins, dumping out the myriad contents on
the floor, watching them scatter. I stoop and grab
and count till I arrive at the precise amount, while my stomach
continues to utter disgraceful words in public;
students rush by, some give strange looks,
others too oblivious to know the day. I shove
the coins in the machine, pushing the buttons
for D7...and out comes Three Musketeers! Damn.
Give me my Baby Ruth! No returns, no refunds.
Always choices: eat the damn Three Musketeers
or eat nothing. No choice at all--peristalsis has begun
before the candy hits my palate.