Late Print

The office was a tomb, almost.

My own breathing, too loud. The city hum,

a distant thought. Then, a ghost

of a grind. Down the hall, a rhythmic drum.

The industrial printer. No one else here.

Just me, and that machine, working late.

It whirred and clattered, spitting out paper,

making its own quiet, mechanical fate.

Like a pulse from another body, unseen.

An insistent, unseen task unfolding there.

Each sheet, a sigh. Each silence, keen.

Just a machine, breathing empty air.