Collating

The security guard is a shadow in the lobby,

juggling a heavy ring of keys.

Up here, the fluorescent lights hum

like a migraine waiting to happen.

The tray shudders and spits out

the final page of the end.

Five years of my life reduced to a staple

and a font size that feels too small.

The scanner bed passes its green, ghostly eye

back and forth, back and forth,

digitizing the wreck of my afternoon.

It sounds like a breathing machine,

steady and indifferent,

until it finishes the job and goes cold.