Troubadors wander down the road
I watch them come
With the expectation they will
Perform better than last year’s gypsies
Who all played violins so sweetly
But in the morning
Ate our bread and robbed us blind

Crimes did not turn me off to hope
I can still appreciate the effort
Of the players, and support those
Who know both Shakespeare and
O’Neil. I read Ibsen in college
And imagined myself in love with Hedda
Gabler. But the actress who played
Her was a thespian, and men were
Not among her company.

I read now in the bathroom
There are too many diversions
In the other rooms, including
Cats and dogs and baseball
Games on TV. I have become
Quite the tactician, and know when to
Bunt and when to hit
The three-run homer. But it all takes me
Away from her, and I have lost
Something in the exchange.

Love, I’ve decided, is another
Troubador. She comes unexpected
And plays a tune. And if you know
The words you may sing along
For a time, and even do the
Karaoke thing aboard ship
With somebody banging
On his cups in percussive
Accompaniment.

The drumming will get to you
And when she leaves, as
She inevitably will, you
Will hear the drums beating
In your head and know
Them to be ghosts
Too many times
It will drive you crazy,
And make you long
For the return of the gypsies

04/08/2009

Posted on 04/08/2009
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch