Photocopies
Dan Johnson
© 2008

Are we photocopies of our fathers?
Are we blurred images of our mothers?
Do we stand on our feet, copying, no one?

Photocopies that is what we are
Our blood runs in black, and blue and red,
Coursing grains of our off white bed of 8 ½ X 11

We pray to be originals
In this the grand old scheme.
One dream, one dreamer at a time,
Like sheep to the slaughter,
One sheet at a time, stacked as a ream,
Slides through this death machine,
Called a photocopier

Our hope, against all odds is that we avoid a paper jam.

Photocopies, that is what we are,

Dan Johnson