(This is the first poem I ever wrote all the way back in August 2016, written in a combination of rage at the ever breaking printer in the office and depression. While it’s served me well, I’m deciding to retire it from slams and shows, but it’s nice to look back and see how far I’ve come)
If I was a machine
I would be the office printer;
Trying to connect to people
But I get that pop-up message that says
“Would you like to add this device to your trusted network”
And I say “I don’t know”.
I churn out work day after day
I do work for other people who then
Don’t give thanks or
Recognition.
I spend the days overused and underappreciated
And I’m walked past every day
And the most interaction I get
Is someone pushing my buttons to get a reaction.
And I copy the same things,
Going through the same motions,
And I wear out and no one seems to notice
That more than once a day I’m running on empty.
And no one notices the marks on the paper
That shouldn’t be there.
The vertical and horizontal lines and random ink spots
That look like nothing until you really start to stare.
It took a while before someone even noticed.
It wasn’t until the the paper was wrapped in
Red, blue and black ink that someone
Thought about calling technical support and didn’t.
Because it was beyond anyone else on how to try to fix it.
No one wanted to fix it.
“It’s not my job”.
But that wasn’t the point.
It shouldn’t have gotten that bad.
A printer can’t speak.
A printer isn’t heard.
It’s pushed until it jams and freezes and angry ink
Erupts across the paper.
You keep pushing the buttons and complain that
“It’s just not working”.
But that can’t stop you from troubleshooting the problem.
Ask the questions,
Find the fault,
Stop a problem before it gets worse.
Have you ever seen an inanimate object
Book itself into technical support?
It can’t be done.
It’s so paralyzed with
Confusion and fear and
Plastic.
But it cries into the fax machine,
Desperately hoping to make a connection,
Desperately hoping to call metaphysical technical support
To finally get the help I need but
I’m rooted to the ground
and routed through the ground.
Going through the motions,
Breaking a little more each day.
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