The Table

That door is closed now.
It lies ‘neath your eyelids.
The elders have died and
Their house has been sold.

The soft glow of power
is faded with reason,
On the curb with your toybox
it waits for the end.

And it will not split
with a roar at the daybreak,
and the jail will not shake
when you hum Burl Ives.

Because you have left it
with spyro’s and etch’a’
to click at a spreadsheet
and guard your punchcard.