Poetry and Poetics
THREE HATS OF MY FATHER'S
My father's checkered,
hounds toothed hats
festoon the top of my tallest bookshelf,
higher than any other art or ornament
in this untidy, idea-crowded office
save the token cheap medieval crucifix
I liberated from Westminster Abbey.
He'll never need those silly hats again;
earth and stone now shade his head.
And, as he always said, mine's too large
to wear those brightly patterned lids,
the quaint ugly kind that old men wear
on those seemingly never-ending days
when they wander the empty winter beaches
wondering what's to become of their sons.
© by Donald Stinson
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