Sabbatical

On Sundays, I stroll down Beacon Street
with no particular destination,
just enjoy the clear sidewalks
and overhanging trees.

Every week the monk joins me
pulling up beside my stride
somewhere between Strathmore Park
and Star Supermarket.

I don’t mind it, except
when he asks the inevitable
Have you been praying?
Have you kept the moment holy?

He always smiles
as I stammer
to explain that I’ve tried
but there’s the mail to send,
laundry to fold,
sisters to visit,
books to read,
mountains to climb,
demons to strangle,
loves to pursue

and I’ve been really busy
preparing to tackle each one.

The monk just winks,
clangs his bells
(I hate those bells)
tightens the rope
around his waist,
stays one step ahead of me.