Sitting at Desk on a Winter Evening

Whose post this is I scarcely know,
It’s housed inside some server, though;
I scroll it down, so sharp and clear,
To survey it before I go.

My little muse must think it queer
To interact from year to year
Within the realm of cyberspace—
Which knows no pain and knows no fear.

She shakes her head, regards my face
As if all this were some disgrace;
I fight to keep her goads at bay,
Then carry on in frenzied pace.

These days we all have much to say,
We bide our time in just that way;
We twitter, tweet and post a look
As hours tick by day to day.

The virtual world, one cosmic book,
Has snagged us all with one great hook,
While time itself, that clever crook,
Has robbed us that which we forsook.

(Apologies to Robert Frost,
Who did not live to count the cost.)

Copyright 2011 © by Brian T. Maurer

One comment on “Sitting at Desk on a Winter Evening

  1. Mr. D. says:


    Ironically we passed the cemetery in Bennington, VT on Wed. evening and told our 8 yr old grandson that a famous poet, Robert Frost, was buried in the cemetary there.

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