Typist’s Apocalypse


apocalypse office.png


When the end comes,

And we have been assured that it will,

We will look back fondly on the

Office errand boys, the plastic cups and

Standardised A4 paper. Good times. We will

Think back to the days when we could still

Convince ourselves of the placid, languorous

State of things, complain of the day-to-day,

Live only for weekends, year after year,

Saving up for a city break in Leeds.

When the end comes,

And it has been promised to us, at first

All of the paperclips will go missing. Then staples

Will jut like pins from the floor, elastic bands

Twanging; paper will shuffle and tumble in the vast

Hurricane of change. We will wonder,

At the end, whether it was our hubris,

Our misfortune or just plain irony

That killed us. Wrong place, wrong time,

Just happening to be the world’s last secretaries;

Or a fitting end, having contributed

To the tipping point of carbon and carbon copies?

Who knows. Perhaps

As the systems fail and the server collapses,

The network terminates and the standby lights

Twinkle out, forever,

We will ask Google, at the end of all things,

What was the fate that killed us? And it will say,

It was the fate that we died writing.


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