image from lalllapaloosa.com
poem submitted to "The Wrose Verse in the Universe, Grand Slam poetry contest
Jami Patterson, sponsor, June 9, 2026
O Sid, thou effervescent thunder-walrus of the office realm, your jaws snap shut like a collapsing star trying to remember its dentist appointment. You sit upon my desk with the gravitas of a melancholy refrigerator, humming like an effulgent stapler-ghost searching for meaning in the break-room microwave. Your staples~ those tiny metallic boomerangs of despair~ glint with the sylvan wisdom of a forest that has never once seen a tree. When you jam, the universe tilts sideways, and time itself sighs like a tired librarian watching someone shelve books by color. O Sid, your hinge creaks with the sorrow of a retired accordion remembering its polka years, while your sonnet-shaped clicking violates both poetry and physics. You bind my documents with the enthusiasm of a sleep-deprived octopus attempting macramé, each crooked staple a reminder that order is a myth invented by filing cabinets. And still I lift you, brave and trembling, knowing that one day you will rise from your plastic throne, staple the moon to the horizon, and declare the dawn UNAUTHORIZED.
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