In Which I Manage To Catch Doctor Who But Almost Miss Writing A Sonnet

My sense of time's the first, always to go,

When some crud's tracked me down and taken me

Its hostage. Sleeping, eating, I don't know

The intervals when they occur. That we

Had plans to watch some Doctor Who, I knew,

And set my cell phone's clock to sound alarm

Whene'er the hour occurred to sign on to

The client where we chat while Pertwee's charm,

Venusian karate, knowledge, and

Dumb luck bring him to some dimension where

The Brigadier has no mustache, no bland

And bureaucratic style -- instead a stare

Through one good eye a scar to make one's blood

Run cold -- and leave this sonnet, well, a dud.