The Trap

The Trap

Feed me the machine

and what do I yield?

An orderly sort of civilian clerks

and privates, corporals, sargeants

captains, majors

and colonels too with

a brigadier at the top

Layer upon layer

come low grade, middle grade,

quality grade, top grade and brand new

Bank, bond, manila, cardboard,

cartridge, paste board, pine

jarrah and veneer too.

The five hundred dollar drum

has got to be replaced

It’s been printing too much.

The machine is bursting at its seams!

Open the doors

there’s levers to pull, buttons to push

and parts that slide out to be cleaned

there’s screws to unscrew, parts

that shift, and doors and walls to bang

and darkness too

Don’t forget the black toner!

The black is paint, and you’re the painter

But don’t worry, the paint comes off

so you polish the machine with a rag.

The noise, as it works, machine gun fire

drowns your silent shouts of

wanting to get out.

Quality control is in your hands

as you silence the machine, pull it apart

carefully prise out burnt sheets

You’ve done your job, called the technician.

Ozone in a poorly circulated room

makes you sick and

you flinch as a metal part burns

your hand, but don’t object.

What - there’s no colour ink cartridges!

It’s a fancy, expensive machine anyway

It’s got twenty five sorting bins

and a duplexing tray too.

In a double sided copy test run

you feed in the paper

it drops neatly into the

duplexing tray, comes out other side up

over the top tray, like a shot

as you and the technician watch.

And with the doors open,

you conspire the trap

and the paper, grades and people feed back

into the machine.

(c) Lai Chew Yarn

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