The Feed

The office went dark at six.

The motion sensors failed to fix

the way I’m hunched in the chair.

The printer breathes the heavy air.

The internal tray begins its slide,

with nowhere for the sound to hide.

The smell of toner, hot and thick,

makes the back of my throat feel sick.

Each page is warm, a fresh white sheet,

sliding out to a plastic beat.

The machine is busy, the world is still,

folding under a mechanical will.