Sewn together, by working hands
And offered up to the afternoon sun,
On the tops of working heads,
Not as an offering, but as an affirmation.
Hung up by night,
Hung up by the night.
Above the tool box.
Above the treasure chest.
Screwdrivers with handles resembling rubies and emeralds shine under flickering incandescent lights,
Miming the movements of candles;
& the pirates can only wonder…
This dimly lit garage,
Lined with oil spills and the dust from the wings of moths,
A few instruction manuals short of a library.
Weary levels lay next to yardsticks,
Forming parallel relationships.
Barely missing right angles…
Barely missing right angels…
Long after the spades have been sheathed
And the shade of the day has receded into actual darkness,
The straw hat will continue its streak of pride.
If a stiff breeze blows,
The hat may find itself dancing like
Plastic bags that often find themselves in similar situations.
Racing through the tall grass,
Picking up speed with each gust
Like a preying lioness,
Kicking up swathes of dandelions and bramble,
Until it is snared by a waiting chain link fence,
( The cactus of the fence world)
And held until it can be recovered.
The hat can be mistaken for an inverted birds nest,
( Minus the eggs)
And not feel any contempt.
The hat feels nothing,
Except the warmth of dignity and sunlight.
A temporary reprieve when the hand is far too tired to shield the eyes,
A staple of credibility when fences have fallen, and shovels must dig deep.
At the end of the day,
Watching the idle dogs with idle spots lifting only their noses at
Understanding this very sentiment,
Is the very foundation of season.
Like most other distinguished articles of clothing,
The straw hat,
When worn properly,
Can hold their heads up high, knowing that through all of the
Cool autumns yet to come,
Their place is always closer to the top than most.
(Save for the halos)
Worn above the broad shoulders,
But below the beating sun.
And aligned almost perfectly
Wayward tunes that were once whistled