I have rings, but no fingers. I orbit, but never wander. What am I?

I swell beneath the moon’s cold gaze, Retreat, return in measured ways. I change the shore, the mind, the year, A rising force both far and near. You feel me shift in blood and wave, The cyclic pull you cannot save.

I push with weight on cloth or stone, I spread the word through ink alone. I chase the powerful, swift and loud, Yet fold your shirts without a crowd. To squeeze, to print, to question, to lean, Four meanings bound in one machine.

I sit inside your home, waiting to leave. I sometimes attempt to exit when you seek relief. I occasionally make noise, embarrassing you, and I’m always considered number two.

I'm in every room but I'm not furniture. You can look through me, but I'm not a mirror.