Echoes of Production

In the office stillness, I hear it whine,

a printer’s lament, a desperate line.

The light blinks red, like a heartbeat, subdued,

in this gray sea of faces, I’m lost in the brood.

Paper jams struggle, a soft mechanical plea,

each crumple, each grind, speaks of mundanity.

The drone of the air, the click of the keys,

are lost to the whirs of this machine’s unease.