He's lost in a way that can only be seen through the holes in his coat, the grit in his verse (the melody of the blood in his veins).
He's overused and underpaid and he has a baby girl and she's -
beautiful.
She fits into the cradle of his arms as if he made her himself (he did), but he can't give her much, only the love in his bones and the time on his hands, and to live knowing there is nothing more he can give breaks him like a thousand-year-old riddle torn apart by simple science. She is the gravitational constant keeping him knee-deep in dirt, feet so firmly on the ground that he has no space in his heart to have his head in the clouds; she is the fuel at the center of his aging star (we are all made of it).
He's lost in a way that can't be found on a map or with directions. He is a bird with a pen (nothing more), convincing the world he's a father and proving it with the words in his love and the silver glinting like spoons in a soup kitchen against the velvet of his pupils.