Cycle

The fluorescent hums,

a thin, constant nerve.

Then the printer wakes,

a grinding intake of breath,

a paper-feed sigh.

It clacks, precise,

each sheet drawn through

with a mechanical moan,

a whisper of ozone,

a dust-fine cough.

My chair creaks,

same spot, same hours.

The paper shudders,

pages piling,

each one a small death.

A dull weight,

another line printed,

another day.