The speaker begins with a quiet confession: he never really believed in happiness, so he never chased it. Everyday contentment seemed like enough, and he admits it might still be, especially when so many people in the world can't reach even that. It's a calm, reasonable, slightly self-justifying tone.
Then two voices break in, as if from his own head or from someone close to him: "But what about love, Dave?" and "And you call yourself a poet!" The teasing, accusing questions suggest he may have been dodging something bigger than happiness, and that a poet ought to know better.
He doesn't argue back. Instead the poem ends on a small image: the Pleiades star cluster overhead, and crickets "syncopating," their chirps skipping against a beat. The answer is wordless. He looks up and listens, and the night offers its own rhythm. The mood shifts from defensive reflection to quiet, open attention, with the question left hanging gently in the air.