“The Echo in the Room” 

In the echoing hush of a room grown still,
Where the walls remember what spreadsheets will
I sat with my tea, brewed bold and free,
From a vessel of leaves and liberty.

The kettle hissed like a knowing friend,
And the Hyundai trunk just would not end.
With every load, a parting spell,
This space once mine, I packed so well.

A column for names, a row for the roles,
Drop-downs dancing in pixel scrolls.
Three references, neat, with nothing askew
Each formula whispered, “You always knew.”

It was never just screens, no matter how grand

Not the code, not the clicks, not the gear on hand.

It was every ounce of breath and gleam,

Even in sleep, I built the dream.

With stars in my ears and sequins that shone,

A name reborn, a role full-grown.

LED badges lit up the door,

Custom neons, balloons hovering, above the floor.

I dressed in belief, not just in thread

I welcomed the future in sequins and red.

They came to me with cautious flame,

Some never called by their real name

Not in the way that said I see,

Not in a space that said just be.

Here, the rules bent wide with grace,

Here, joy rewrote the rigid place.

They ran to their stations when the bell would ring,

Stayed past the next, still building a thing

A world, a story, a better way,

Where colors lived beyond black and gray.

And in their dreaming, wild and free,
They taught more truth than they learned from me.

The leaderboard pulsed with pixel pride,
Where dreams and data did collide.
Each sign-in logged, each click divine,
A student’s journey in tidy lines.
Their avatars grinned -Funkos of fate-
Drawn from day one when it all felt great.
Eyes full of spark, names glowing bright,
With hopes uploaded into Friday night.

And amidst the numbers, and fonts just so,
I conjured a résumé’s silken glow
Where S unspools in Gothic grace,
And Pumpkin the cat, in fur-laced space,
sits smugly, sainted, in glorious girth,
A feline font of professional worth.

Pumpkin, whose purrs are sealed in gold,
Guards every word my cover letters hold.
She blesses the margins with watchful eyes
Tracking the dance of dragonflies.
An emblem of truth in bureaucratic disguise.

The site I built? Oh, yes it’s mine.
Hand-coded nights in the margins of time.
They’ll poke around when I am gone,
And find… sixteen chairs, two cords, and a haunting song.

Because the good stuff moved. Because I did too.
Because sometimes the Wah demands you’re through.
But not with the work -not with the flame-
Just with pretending they’d ever treat it the same.

So I take my teapot, and every S,
My drop shadows, checkboxes, and quiet finesse.
I walk with the weight of a hundred done things,
And the laugh of a forgetful cat who dreams she has wings.

I’m not gone. I’m shifting lanes.
Pumpkin approves. She runs the trains.
And in some new space, where the walls are clean,
I'll build again... not loud, but keen.
For those who see, and sip, and try,
And aren’t afraid to ask “But why?”

And yes, there’s work, and work, still deep.

And miles to go before I sleep.