The Monk
Zipping out our road this morning
in my green Beetle, up ahead,
along the shoulder in the steam of sun,
there materialized a monk in saffron
and scarlet robes, shaved head,
walking away from me. As I passed
I turned back to see his face.
I must have looked … surprised, delighted
intrigued … I was all those things —
the mystery of his presence there —
a Tibetan monk on Wet Hill Road
beside a row of cedars, talking
on a cell phone.
I drove to the gym, lifted weights,
did yoga, took a shower, still
in the glow of that moment, so that
turning onto my road, heading home,
I was not even surprised to see him again
miles up the road from our earlier passing,
this time heading toward me, no phone
but what looked like fat yellow ear muffs
or head phones, and as I passed
he lifted his hand, met my eyes,
smiled with delight as though,
exactly as though, we had scheduled
this meeting, had been coming toward
each other from two distant places
all our lives.
