A felt hat.
A round angel wing
molded from seasons.
Warming the think machine
while wandering the town
in winter from rains and frost
on the jacket
borrowed from a clothesline
in an alley
where last night’s party revelers
slept through a midnight rain
while some searched for fame and
dreams beyond the fingertips
beneath billboard pictures of
flat faces and souls without heart.
Upright, solid, faithful, covering
and holding court
with strangers,
the hat,
follows with its shadow.
Roger Singer 