Troubadour

A denim saint, famously disshevelled,
Bohemian - as though he'd just left Byron
in a dive in the undeveloped world

sipping absinthe moodily ... The mist
of legend cloaks this wrinkled Oberon,
the wizard with the wonder-working song list

whose miracles are scheduled every night,
raising the crowd, making the lame to dance
that way the lame have, stiff, unsyncopat-

ed. This is what he does, endlessly,
transporting halls of swaying celebrants,
and there are many worse things than to be

a retailer of euphoria to the masses,
on the road, and on the road forever,
selling himself each night in silver pieces.

David Callin

If you have any comments on this poem,  David Callin would be pleased to hear from you.