poems by owen lucas

Joshua, sat strumming his guitar
in an office chair, by the computer.
Strums, squints at the screen, sings,
his voice cracks, he fumbles, tries
to hit the high note, the karaoke
comes down with an adolescent whine.
I wish I had a harmonica, he wists,
fiddling with the capo and the strings.
He's got the street corner troubadour
look down: black skinnys, fringe wisps
peeping from his lime green hood,
over rectangle specs. He sticks out
his thick bottom lip as he croons,
brows meet in the middle, arch up high
in joy, his blocky features dance,
confessional singer or Mr Potato Head.
Leonard Cohen without the tunes.
He stops to rattle off some words
to his online friends, click clack,
pulls the hoodie back, out of it springs
a hairdo from the Lord of the Rings.
Happy little tuneless hobbit he.