At first, I don’t recognize
the person sitting 
on the next bar stool.

His hat pulled down low 
over his forehead,
I hear him order an ale
in a clipped British accent,
& realize his clothing 
has a distinct
16th century look.

Christopher Marlowe? I ask.

Call me Kit, he replies, 
fingering his wispy moustache,
and winking at me 
with his one good eye.

We talk for a while 
about theatre, exotic birds, 
and the British monarchy;
I’m surprised when he makes 
no mention of Ben Jonson 
or Shakespeare.

When I get up to leave,
he offers to buy me a drink. 
These vagabond seasons
are out of balance,
he complains,
and somehow, I know
just what he means,
our hearts full,
as dense as time.