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It stands triumphant, not a single sound;

Here it stays all alone. But not for long.

Beating, waiting for substance, pound, pound, pound.

Heard from within. Heard by the ancient gong.

Why has it been left to stand all alone?

To provide for itself? Aching. Needing.

Was left in the dust, to fend for its own.

If it had knees, it would be down, pleading.

The times have changed, a bag comes through the door

Overflowing. Contents on the carpet.

One by one, it’s filled, needing more and more.

Finally! They have been to the market!

Now it’s full. In fact, there’s not enough room,

For a bookshelf, with no books, meets its doom.