You expected a hermit to live in the wilderness,
but he has a little house and a garden,
surrounded by cheerful birch groves,
ten minutes off the highway.
Just follow the signs.
You don’t have to gaze at him through binoculars from afar.
You can see and hear him right up close,
while he’s patiently explaining to a tour group from Wieliczka
why he’s chosen strict isolation.
He wears a grayish habit,
and he has a long white beard,
cheeks pink as a baby’s,
and bright blue eyes.
He’ll gladly pose before the rosebush
for color photographs.
His picture is being taken by one Stanley Kowalik of Chicago,
who promises prints once they’re developed.
Meanwhile a tight-lipped old lady from Bydgoszcz
whom no one visits but the meter reader
is writing in the guest book:
“God be praised
for letting me
see a genuine hermit before I die.”
Teenagers write, too, using knives on trees:
“The Spirituals of ’75—meeting down below.”
But what’s Spot up to, where has Spot gone?
He’s underneath the bench pretending he’s a wolf.