In the corner of the room, a desk

On the corner of the desk, a microwave

On top of the microwave, a coffee pot

There is a lamp

There is a chair

There is a drawer and I slide it open

There are specks of something, marks of age

There is no paper

There is no need now for it I suppose

People shout their words in their own minds

Tap their concerns by rapid thumb code

Release complaints into social media clouds

Fold their lists into threads of like thinkers

Yet a pencil in hand scratches a road map

A fine point pen follows a river of story

A fury may be transformed to understanding

Fire and rant invited to reason, new passage

Some hold steady the significance of tools

Language and words yearn for expression

Without keys our luggage becomes burden

Or too much a mystery to be discovered

Tunnels of discovery dark and foreboding

We invest in explosives ensuring no passage