Too bad this poem wasn’t written
in a 12th-century monastic scriptorium
because it would have begun
with a much bigger T,
which would loom over the smaller letters,
their tiny serifs fluttering in the breeze.
The big letter might even be inside
an illuminated scene
perhaps showing in gold two monkeys
or six younger ones hanging
from the crossbar of the T
with vines and flowers growing all around.
More likely, you’d be treated to
the reminder of a skull,
a sheep and shepherd combo,
or the Cross itself, empty now,
with a long winding shroud
draped over its outstretched arms.
But I’d hate to spend my days
hidden under a brown cowl,
writing with a bony, arthritic hand
at a long table of other hooded figures,
then washing down a crust of bread
with medieval water from a dented goblet.
I’d miss my silver car and my stereo
and my wife, who cooks us Cajun shrimp,
so never mind—the plain letter T will do.
Plus, I love being stuck here
in the science fiction of my 21st-century life
even with all the dying around me,
the planet now barely able to spin,
and my pen slithering off into oblivion.