Office Minutes Passing

If I were to slip
between your sheets
of paper, would I end
up a marginal line

or a blue horizontal?
Would I become a checked
box, carbon copied for your
glasses to bend and focus

for weary eyes? An official
signature sitting on a line
with folded hands? I would
be a stray mark - a misaligned

comma - duplicated in
the corner of every
single sheet, noticeable

enough to irk you each time
I pass by your face.
I would watch your eyes
narrow each time your waxy

thumb attached itself to
another form as another
error glared in the
corner of your eye. Now

I sit filling forms for office
shredders. I smile each time
you stop, circling the loose
punctuation with your pen.