A ruddy hawk
circles the pond
across the lot
from the cafe
where Robin Hood plays
on a flat screen
mounted to the wall.
Wearing burgundy robes,
a monk steps in,
facing me,
parallel to the TV
and to the caped-back
of Errol Flynn.
“You’re a strange man.”
says Lady Marian,
(Through the magic
of closed-captioning)
. . .I can't understand -
you, a Saxon. . .”
“Saxon. . .Norman. . .”
Robin replies.
“What does
that matter?”
The monk clicks his tongue
to a rhythm disguised
by his Beats headphones.
He begins pacing in spirals,
blending some cosmic batter,
around the communal table
where I sit alone.
And I wonder if it means
that I'm finally churning into one
with everything and every one--
the fish, the hawk,
the monk, the sun ...
Olivia De Havilland?
