So I visit my friendly neighborhood office supply store,

with a chapbook in mind.

I admire all the brightly-colored papers,

variety of binding options, glossy covers.

I estimate the cost of paper and copies,

and decide in my frugality

to keep the binding simple,

just the classic three staples in the spine.

The clerk says, “That’s ten cents a staple.”

Customers in the checkout line turn around

to the sound of my jaw dropping.

I am stopped in my self-publishing tracks.

“Ten cents a s-staple?” I stammer, like a stunned parrot.

The young guy nods his bottle-blond head.

I don’t even ask the reason for this outrageous charge –

I try to figure it out myself.

Maybe it’s because I’m purchasing

the namesake of this chain of stores –

like designer jeans, I have to pay

for something with the “staples” name.

No, that can’t be it.

Let’s see: there are five thousand staples in a box.

So these are costing me five hundred dollars a box.

Maybe they’re made of some precious metal –

gold or platinum, perhaps. 

I peer at them – no, not even silver.

Maybe it’s the labor charge –

it takes about three seconds to staple something,

carefully at least.

So they’re charging two dollars a minute.

That’s one hundred twenty dollars an hour.

Damn, why am I writing poetry

when I could make my fortune just stapling all day?

But there are no job openings there this week,

so I relent and get my book printed.

I hope you’ll buy one tonight, after the reading.

And when you take it home, be sure to admire the staples,

the best that money can buy.

10/09/2001

Posted on 10/09/2001
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt