Monday, October 25, 2010

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.

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