This was just a reflection piece in response to a poetry prompt: “your reaction to an Out of Order sign on a vending machine.” And in the spirit of taking things way too seriously, I worked it into what you see below.
The poem in its entirety is here:
It’s Out Of Order
“Out of Order” the sign on the vending machine said,
hastily scrawled in blue Magic Marker,
jagged strips of masking tape making it secure.
(Oh, the metaphors that come brawling forward from this! What to choose? What to say?)
Can we, in our imperfect, jagged human speech make secure our messages?
And why is it that the killing, hurting, destroying messages seem to be the ones that stick?
And what is out of order? And for whom?
There are those who know the secret code, or have the key,
and they can get all the Cheetos they want.
“Out of order” is a statement of power.
“Out of order” is value-laden.
Whose order?
“You’re out of order!” the parliamentarian says, “So sit down. Be quiet. Don’t disturb.”
Maybe the world needs more of us to be out of order.
And jaggedly, in loud blue Magic Marker, proclaim and give voice to a different message.