I am but a wee paper clip
from wire have I been fashioned
My energy? Stored potential.
No trace herein, of passion.
My twisted form designed to grip
and gather together reams.
Sometimes I’m pushed a tad too wide
you damn near bust my seams.
I’ve held for you, your precious forms.
Your letters, bills, invoices.
I’ve held them in that musty drawer
whilst you perused your choices
My brother was on the desk next door
where your co-worker, Mr Flashman
has used him to clean his ear-wax out
then tossed him in the trash-can.
And now I go to join him
I have had my fill of paper.
All thanks to Father Christmas,
And his poxy electric stapler.
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Comments about this poem (Unstationery traveller by Dan Reynolds )
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