The Hat
The deaf gentleman did not stop moving
until I shouted
I LIKE YOUR HAT.
He turned and
doffed it, smiled
first at me then
at the feel
of the hat
in his hands then
at the hat
at itself.
"Yes," he said. "Thank you."
He held it up
in a salute
of broad brimmed straw and
grosgrain ribbon and
fine leather head band.
"Italy," he said. "Italian."
THEY KNOW HOW
TO MAKE HATS
I shouted.
His blue eyes
searched over my face.
"No need to shout," he said.
He looked again
at the hat
turned it up on edge and
brought it down
on his head with
one hand fore and
one hand aft.
"Cheerio now!" He winked and
shuffled toward the door that
squeaked when he
opened it and
walked out around the corner.
Oh, Dear Man and
Italian hat. Oh,
be careful out there
in the fast world.
Look both ways.
Watch your head.
Don't fall down.
Cushion yourself with
a bucket of air
here and there.
Cushion yourself with
faeries and elves
themselves.
Cushion yourself with
cotton batting
or old aunts' tatting.
And if you must die,
Dear Man and
Italian hat, oh,
slip through the
curtain gently.
Put your feet up
on a railing
on a porch
on a fine street where
you will drink nectar and
nod at passers by who
will shout when
they behold you
I LIKE YOUR HAT!
© 2001 Tulis McCall