The light starts flashing.
The constant beeping provides the perfect melody.
I assume the primary position:
I clutch a pile of A4 paper
and hold it up to you,
to allay you and control you,
like the bullfighter's cape in the paso doble.
With clunky work shoes and starchy uniform
in the place of satin and sequins,
I dart back and forth
in a mix of cha-cha-cha and quickstep:
a routine well-practised day after day,
pulling open drawers and covers
with grace and sleight-of-hand,
clanging them shut again
with powerful pushes.
You, my dance partner, disobey,
your beeps growing louder,
your mechanical wrath growing.
I continue to try and appease you
with offerings of ink and reboots,
and yet you still refuse
to perform that much desired grand finale
and produce my much needed document.
Ah, screw it – I'm calling the technician.