You’ll likely have your own list of these:
misheard lyrics amusing to recollect
and share with feigned shame, once the pop tunes
of life’s soundtrack subside to the stodgy
opera of adulthood, and you hum along
to the baffling language of grown-ups,
your voice settling into its lower register.
But you keep to yourself each lapse as you learn
the words to your middle life arias--the noble
vocation revealed as just another job,
the stranger’s face mistaken for a soulmate.
And still you sing, sure of each verse
in the shower, belting out a bravura piece
in the car with the windows down,
the landscape in your wake littered
with pages of that mangled libretto.