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.


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