Duplex Printing

The lights are off in the cubicles next door

but the tray keeps spitting out its heated pride.

Fifty pages of a mistake hitting the floor

of a plastic bin, sliding side to side.

It’s a rhythmic thud, a mechanical wheeze

that grinds the remaining silence into grit.

I’m standing here, shaking at the knees,

waiting for the machine to finally quit.

The air smells like burnt dust and toner ink,

a heavy warmth that coats the back of my throat.

It gives me too much empty time to think

about every useless thing I ever wrote.