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.