It sits upon a desk, silent, stern.
A thin black metal brick 
with a glass face that stymies
my futile efforts to divine its nature,
showing me nothing but the inquisitive 
expression upon my face.
So nondescript it could easily be mistaken
for a paperweight. Yet it is as awe-inspiring
a tool as a portal to another universe. 
With but a few languid taps, I can call up 
on its face  any anecdote, obscure
fact, or dusty, forgotten tome,
the whole of human knowledge,
a quantity of information that could exhaust
five thousand libraries as easily as 
I fill a backpack with binders.
With it I am a master of knowledge,
a knower of secrets, or, at least,
I could be. In reality, I use it  
not to ponder the wisdom of a hundred generations,
nor travel the length and breadth of the world,
but to download rock songs 
and watch television
and comment on my friends' meals while sitting in bed.


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