The Clerk

The party is happening three doors away

where they’re cutting a cake for a man’s final day.

I stayed at my desk with the staples and ink

and the kind of silence that forces a think.

Then the machine in the corner began a low growl,

a rhythmic, mechanical, metallic howl.

It’s spitting out pages of data and lines

while the sun on the carpeted floor slowly climbs.

A green light is blinking on the small plastic face,

a heartbeat for an empty and carpeted space.

It’s printing a report that will sit on a shelf

until it’s as lonely as I am myself.