The office after nine

The office, after nine,

a hushed box of stale air.

My keyboard clicks

like tiny bones.

Then, the cough next door:

a mechanical groan,

a whirring gear,

then the stutter-start,

that familiar, low thrum

of the old shared printer.

A green light blinks,

patient,

and a single sheet

slides out,

white and thin,

a forgotten page

waiting in the dark.

Someone else's unfinished thought.