To write a poem to benefit the web
Seems strange, to type these words away from me.
No pen, no tiny turret in Zagreb
At any time I'm free to up and flee.
Such freedom tests my  discipline, my will
My short attention nurtured by my tribe
Has robbed me, (so I say), of my "Melville",
My Inner cummings, to which I subscribe.
Such excuses further pull me down
Away from higher orbits of My Craft
Please, my mirror, I am not a clown
Nor a hack who's steeped in Lingual graft.
Can I accept the onward March of Time,
Dispense excuses, get on with the sublime?