He reads Beowulf

His middle-aged manner,
his corduroy, reads Beowulf
in Heaney’s translation.

His leather bag expensively,
his hooded top in mulberry,
reads the words of scribes
scribbled down from the rabble.

His iPod finds attention,
his stubble neatly removed,
hair trained to submission,
hair trimmed as standard.

He reads Beowulf
as standard as his standard,
not his flag, allows.

He reads Beowulf
as music allows.