Alas Poem by David McLansky

Alas, I felt like Robinson Crusoe;
Or Linda Wolfe without a Trousseau;
Like Vincent Van Gogh without a brush,
A manic turtle in a rush;
Like a Hollywood agent without a phone,
Like Donald Trump without a home;
An oenologist without a glass,
A gambler without a fist of cash;
What fanciful airs I heard in rhyme,
What melodies, what tunes divine;
What subtle, clever dissected thoughts,
What poetry in ironwork wrought;
And no place to go with all my magic,
I lived a poet distraught and tragic;
My connection to the Internet
Had been severed, I grieved upset;
And lovers of my poetry
Felt abandoned yet by quirky me;
Governments rose and governments fell,
Bones got broke and ankles swelled;
Breakfasters logged to my blog
And in their orange juice began to sob;
For I was gone, had disappeared,
The Irish wept tears in their beer;
And midst this swell of savage mourning,
Paranoid thoughts arose in scorning;
Was I petty poet on strike?
An unsung poet in speechless spite?
Hours passed into days then weeks,
I was a poet who didn’t speak;
There was a rumor that I was dead,
A dog had bit me on the leg,
A rabid dog dripping malice,
Or had I been kidnapped to a palace
There to sing my tuneful lays
To Rupert Murdock on gloomy days;
And then this morning in a manic flight
Having labored throughout the night,
I discovered a skinny plug unportaled,
I plugged it in, a poet proved mortal;
So once again I am restored,
Once more I mine this precious ore:
The detritus of my heated brain,
Heard melodies in sweet refrain.