Frank, where did all your poetry go?
It vanished like socks in the laundry below.
Your sonnets once sparkled, your couplets could sing—
Now dust gathers thick on your favorite ink thing.
Why did you stop writing? Did inspiration flee?
Did it catch the last train to Cincinna… ti?
Did your rhymes get distracted by pancakes and pie,
Or retire for good with a wink and goodbye?
Perhaps your muse said, “Frank, I’m taking a break—
I’ve got bills to pay and a soufflé to bake.”
Perhaps every metaphor, seeking a home,
Got lost in your notebook and started to roam.
But Frank, dear old poet, don’t leave us bereft—
Your comma is lonely, your pencil feels left.
So pick up that pen, let your wild verses sow—
We’re wondering, Frank: where on earth did you go?
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