After Hours

The fluorescent lights hum a low, steady C,

and the elevators have gone to sleep in the shaft.

I’m the only one left with a cold cup of tea

and a spreadsheet that looks like a rough, broken draft.

Down in the hallway, a motor begins

a rhythmic, metallic, and deep-throated groan.

The printer is waking, it cycles and spins,

spitting out pages in the dark all alone.

Forty-two sheets for a meeting at nine,

smelling of ozone and scorched, heavy ink.

I stand in the warmth of its mechanical whine

and wait for the screen on my laptop to blink.