It’s
frayed and bent
Body
oils stain it’s down.
The
felt is drying and fragile now;
Its
ribbons run amok.
Its
dove gray velvet skin is gone
As
it sits alone on the stand,
A
lonely tribute stares at me
To
that sturdy little man.
He
wore it proudly, his gray felt hat
That
dressed his casual clothes.
Khakis
or blues, a light plaid shirt,
This
hat with anything goes.
The
smile beneath from ear to ear;
A
warm hand for his friends.
The
man who wore this hat
Would
he be my dearest friend?
I
longed for that nearly all my life.
The
man who wore the dove gray hat
Is
the man who sired me.
I
miss him so as I gaze at it
On
the pole alone. My Papas’
Hat
will dry a rot and I’ll
Really
be left alone.
His memory will be all I have
His
hat will soon be gone.
My
Papa’s hat will dry and rot
And
I’ll really be left alone.
His
memory will be all I have
His
hat will soon be gone.
What
really hurt is that I’ll never fit
In
that little man’s hat at all.
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