Beside the books I mean to read,
You wait without a single need;
While I make plans of grand design,
You guard a quiet inch of mine.
No crumbs to steal, no cheese to chase,
No whiskers twitching on your face;
A modest wheel, a plastic shell—
And yet, a tale I know too well.
My working mouse commands the day,
And clicks importantly away;
You watch it from beside my tea,
As overlooked as things can be.
Then suddenly—the pointer stays.
I click. I shake. I count the ways
A man who speaks of clouds and AI
Can plead, “Just move!” and wonder why.
The deadline nears; my grand command
Has dwindled to a helpless hand.
I turn to you—and there you are,
My desktop’s most unlikely star.
One little click, and rivers flow;
The stranded words know where to go.
My wisdom, waiting on the screen,
Resumes—as though no pause had been.
And I, who called you “spare” till now,
Must smile at that small word somehow.
How lightly we assign a place
To things that quietly offer grace.
Perhaps I do this every day—
Let louder wonders lead the way,
While something simple, close and small,
Sits ready should those wonders fall.
So rest beside my crowded square
Of books and bills and tangled wire;
I’ll leave a little room right there—
You’ve earned far more than I require.
For all the clever things I do,
Today depended much on you.
How strange that I should find, right there,
So much essential in a “spare.”
–Mani