After Six

The HVAC has clicked into its sleep.

Only the copier is awake,

shoving a hundred pages through its throat

with a mechanical rhythm that sounds like a limp.

Thrum-clack. Thrum-clack.

The paper hits the tray with a dry slap.

I stand over the glass and wait,

the smell of ozone filling the cubicle.

The ink is so fresh it’s almost sticky,

the heat of the rollers bleeding through

into the palms of my hands.

It’s the only warm thing in the building.