Here’s your problem!
Drawled the jeans
Protruding rudely
From the rear end
Of the copy machine
A crimson face
Popped up with
Jack-in-the-box élan
A smile of triumph
Painted slyly on its
Parchment skin.
Next came a finger
With a single
Jet black dot
Embedded in its tip.
See here?
This grain of sand
This single grain
This piece of dirt
This…
… is all it took
To stop your
Holy print job
Dead.
In its tracks.
Makes you think,
Don’t it, preacher?
Ain’t that just how
Satan does his work?
With the little things
That we ignore?
But say now here I’m
Preachin’ at you.
He blushed
Then like a sacrament
He placed that tiny speck
In my extended hand.
Much later when he had
Packed his things and left
I taped the Devil’s dot
As I had named it
To a piece of card
And placed it on my desk
As a reminder
Then turned once more
To making copies
Pondering the power
Of the Devil
And his details.
The Devil in the details
Penguin Poems 