playfully the wind
pulls the bowler from my head
pirouetting I snatch it back
edges softened
by ten gallons of rain
broad enough for a dry neck
this hotel lobby
has many ways to spend money
I gamble on a hat
autumn is perfect
for sacrificial wicker
Brooks Brothers throwback
in Montreal for work
I find a shrine for hats
Borsalino paradise
on a forest walk
spiders fall from overhead
evading swallows
I don’t wear ballcaps
give me a fedora instead
it rains, I smile
at the front door
I ponder which hat to wear
children laugh outside
unleashed, her hair
flies triumphantly up
a golden crown
woven cedar strips
bridging cultures and form
one more seagull target
silhouetted
crisp brim unmistakable
it’s the police
I find a feather
its beauty calls me skyward
to mourn lost flocks
David Trudel © 2014
