THE HAT SPEAKS
i am a hat riding on a man’s head
speeding on the 5am L
he has a shapely skull that gives off a steady heat
i can smell the perfume of his shampoo
feel the blood throbbing through his brain
almost in rhythm with the smacking tracks
the riders are silent
bug eyed with caffeine
or dead looking, with moldy bread eyes
and worn faces, above too big coats,
dull brained statistical averages, lurching towards cubicles
the poor bastards, sad like dead men’s shoes draped on a wire
just hanging, tied and going nowhere they meant to go
going and going and going where they believe they must
the same, endless, formless gray, until the strings rot away
and the sodden things fall, unnoticed
being a hat ain’t so bad
you get left alone most of the time
misplaced, left somewhere quiet, out of the way
i keep my shape most days, and that’s enough
he straightens me again and again, not used to being hatted
i catch him checking his reflection in the black window
he clears his throat, buttons his coat
it’s going to be hell outside
the wind will have teeth
the snow is massing, a system is forming off the lake
i can feel it in my wool
all i can hope for is that he’s smart enough to walk into the wind
at an angle
that he keeps hold of me around corners
and doesn’t let go
