Shepherd of Voices

by Cliff Saunders

Springsteen’s song about the light
in every room of a romance
gets to me squarely in the gut.

It’s good therapy for the fool
whose main worry is rescuing
Earth from an asteroid.

I meet drag queens on beach avenues
on hot summer nights and sing
to their knees about their own fire.

I’m like a demanding hostess
who talks too much about herself.
Deep down, I appreciate lips

when they turn a bit cloudy.
I’m open to the sensuous touch
of a finger around the curves

of my hair. Now I keep watch
over my flock of voices
with the same feeling. My passion

is the same as a pianist’s, as one yard
of red ribbon. Still going strong,
I whistle a little deeper, a little darker.