clustered along the ceiling, lamenting the breaks in the web.
The future is changing, and maybe it always was,
spiders wait and watch, and when the sound of vacuum reaches
the uppermost heights of the room,
they skitter.
A roomful of crap is waiting, boxes saved against the possibility
that there would be something to do to pass the time until
there was no more time.
Ancient machines crouch underneath broken tables,
useless tools crowd for space,
under the watch of the spiders.