or a blue or black jet jammed, obstructed,
a fatal flaw, damning you, noble deskjet,
child of Hewlett and Packard, who provided
my past printer, and will provide my next,
and my child's printer, until print itself is dead.
Damning you, and damning my document,
dyed with the blood of your cracked cartridge,
ink-stained, illegible, unsaved.
Trusted scribe, sure to sketch
my words on parchment, plain white bond
branded black, touched with ink,
fixing thoughts in text, brief words
in rows of red, and blue, and cyan.
A year of triumphant carriage returns,
of lines dutifully arranged,
true type, bold, justified,
drawn from ancient Roman fonts,
crafted of Copperplate and Courier.
Dusk draws near, dark and cold night
descends like lost ink, a cartridge spilling
its life's toner in black, eternal trails,
blotting your final words, wrapped in ink,
shrouded forever by your fatal, final error.
Now, we gather your grave goods,
and coil your cables, long cobwebbed copper,
bundled and bagged, in arm-thick rolls,
wrap them for return to the womb of earth,
bagged and boxed, packaged, in peace and pieces,
to be buried in the back, beside the tall trees,
and the drive that leads to the road
that leads ever onward.