Gypsy skirt and patchwork blouse
Sandals with soles worn through
The only thing that gleams on her are
well oiled strings and the elegant cyprus neck
Of her shiny mandolin

Sitting cross-legged on a straw mat
Mandolin nestled between her thighs
She plucks its strings gently at first
Imitating foreplay, her voice
Deepens and softens with the notes she plays
The tension rises and rises until
In the throes of a musical orgasm she explodes!
The crowds clap and shuffle away
I stay because I am smitten

Sunlight streams in
Through window slats on Sunday morning
She turns away from the light and snuggles in
I smile kiss her exposed back and
Trudge to the kitchen for breakfast
Our mouths juggle chewing morsels and dreaming
Of tiny feet and white picket fences
Her face distorts in a mask
And with her hand over her mouth
She flees to the bathroom en-suite
And I realise I am about to become, a father

One and three years gone
And all that is left of the fiery mandolin lover
Is her dusty companion
Hung by the door, ready for departure
But she stays on for her red haired son and sometimes for me
But I see beneath her smiling mask
At her soul, caged like a prize bird

As I leave to earn my keep
The urge to lock the doors overwhelms me
For I am still in love with her
But alas, she loves still the open road
And her heart lures her back to him
A rueful smile spreads across my face
And I try to be thankful for my time with her

Eight years have passed since
She returned to her lover
I came home with my red haired son
And found her mandolin gone
I was not surprised for I knew the day would come
It was in her nature to roam free
Untethered to any post
Grateful I am though, of my red haired souvenir of when
For a little while
Love wrestled down and tamed a troubadour.


This is for my eternal muses; Tori Amos, Nerina Pallot and succubus sama. 🙂


5 thoughts on “Troubadour

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