My triskaidekaphobia was given reign one day,
when I woke up and thirteen years had simply slipped away.
My memory contained a hole, and thirteen years were gone;
I did not know from Y2K till yesterday at dawn.
The fear of thirteen is not bad, but losing thirteen years
sends shivers down a normal spine and manufactures tears.
It’s like you’re standing on a rug and then the rug’s pulled out;
and like the Isley Brothers said, it makes you want to shout.
So I consulted periodicals and almanac,
the Internet, the library and even my friend Mac.
I had to know what I had missed in thirteen years of blank:
Who was the current president? What party should I thank?
And being analytical, some questions did abide;
I could not understand the gap no matter how I tried.
But then like grasping for a straw, that Y2K sat straight;
I wondered if perhaps it played a role in my blank slate.
Perhaps I wasn’t ready for the century’s sharp turn;
was I compliant with the times, did I have much to learn?
Maybe within my neural net something had gone astray,
and like a novice I was not prepared for Y2K.
While cogitating all the reasons for amnesia’s void,
I sought to keep an even keel and not be paranoid.
I just assumed that Y2K had scrambled all my thoughts,
and I was not prepared to go from ninety nine to aughts.
How deep the mystery becomes when memory’s not whole!
You’re like a ship without a helm upon a fatal shoal.
And so to make the best of it you rejoin life’s parade,
employing that old bromide of just making lemonade.
I set about a course of study so I would not fret;
I read about computers and the growth of Internet.
I went about the pace of life despite the mental blight,
and being true to what I love, I knew I had to write.
O memory, of thirteen years you’ve blown a vital fuse;
and yet in spite of overload I haven’t lost my muse.
So do not prod with spear and tine, reminding me of slip;
for even though the sea’s a risk, I still command the ship.
I figured I would have no trouble finding it online;
a writing resource for my needs, rich ore which I could mine.
And then I found, at least in part, the years that had been tossed;
I came across Writing Dot Com, and I was not so lost.
Poetic Traditions Contest