h.man.

   I know of a man who wears an assortment of hats.

   Some large brimmed, others the soft-padded, pillion;

   saddled umbrage for the fat flap on the back of

   his neck.

   Others too close to black to call black.

   Others large and primped, suspended from

   the sorrows, flamed, protuberance, elevated.

   He allowed me to try one on once,

   the one with feathers. The one you

   hold tightly onto when the wind enters

   the lock.

   He  told me I didn't have the disposition

   to wear hats.

   As if you need a pill, accepted and endured.

   Or a bright room, the presbytery, little

   stands, reserved just for the clergy.

   I mentioned that I wished, the hat I chose,

   would soften in the rain and produce the

   image of unclear outlines.

   That it could be worn

   with the pink flower pants

   I have saved from Hendrix

   and with the thunderboa,

   elongated haberdash of

   color and endless age.

 

   He walked away from me, hat in hand,

   as Thyestean, who unwittinly,

   ate the flesh

   of a child.

Reviews

[Emily B]

i used to be the bonnet queen, every one i knew had two or three or six

but in my older years it doesn't seem as important to have very many covers for my face and hair, i want the sun to see me

but that's just the devil in me, when i go out in my dress and apron i will snatch up my sunbonnet and tie it snug and tend to the work at hand

[SHEEMA HUQ]

Good tribute to the millinary world.