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.