There are pencil shavings on the floor

where I missed the bin

and there they will stay until my penance is over,

the same can be whispered for the remains of a rubber,

quietly judging me, assuming superiority

and remarking upon

the desperation, the vile responsibility placed upon my shoulders

as I hunch over a plastic typewriter,

plastic keys, plastic words, plastic hack

and I wish the pencils would sharpen

themselves and the rubber erase itself

out of existence…

 

…for in their world I am trapped,