The Domesticated Troubadour

he’s too young for it now++++the romantic posturing
on rain-+++soaked terraces++++& the distant sea
crashing++++his kids are putting++++clips in his hair
outer-space stickers++++on his sunburst strat
now it’s more than enough++++to leap from cushion
to matte-gray cushion++++avoiding carpet-lava
& calling for help across++++minute distances++++even when
he hauls out the garbage++++past midnight++++odor
of damp leaves in darkness++++there is no inkling
of song in him++++he’s sure the romance will return
someday++++in a sweep of cheatgrass++++cloud-
shadows drifting++++over his open palms++++but then
where will his kids be++++when again will he count
with eyes closed++++or rise from among their sleeping
bodies++++so quietly++++he almost forgets
his ancient calling++++almost forgets++++to breathe