The Pet Stapler

I am the cubicle in the nighttime.

I am the tired desk chair resting after work.

I am the typewriter never used,

since email made its debut.

This is the useless anthem,

so inadequate for the needs of the moment.

But nevertheless,

it has purpose in the heart of the young,

who feel they are never enough.

They with their tired feet

and broken backs. Because we are

the labor for the elite and

the future of a culture of apathy.

I am no more cared for than the next

poor bastard.

The stapler cries sharp tears

across the floor at night.

They bounce noiselessly off of the ground,

wishing to prick the feet of passersby

through patent leather shoes.

I am the staple.

I am the staple.

I am the stapled page,

bound together permanently,

only to be ripped and torn,

sheet from sheet,

then restapled again and again

as people need.

I am the lonely fluorescent light

of the office building, flickering in

and out of consciousness. I am

the singular bulb’s prayer for continuity.

I am the janitor,

cleaning the surfaces of the uncaring.

I am the hand at the switch,

Forgetting about the things at work.