I am Wearing Too Many Hats
I stack them on my head, but down they fall—
sombreros, trilbies, caps—do I look cute
and comical? I’m not. I am a brute,
a Hydra; tear my hats off and they all
grow back. I thrash, I cry, I caterwaul,
I scream, “Retreat!” Alas, I’m no Canute.
Fedoras, bowlers, snoods: they’re taking root,
they’re taunting me, they’re spilling from my hall,
they’ve filled my car, my mind. Sometimes, I try
to pass them off as currency. No joy.
I gift them. They come back to me. I toy
with chopping off my head, suspecting I
am nothing but a mannequin, piled high
with hats. And so, unable to destroy
this fez, this cloche, this sailor hat (ahoy!),
I stack and juggle. LUCKILY, some guy
who knows a thing or six is passing through.
He’s only got one hat, admittedly,
but plenty of advice. “Just look at me!”
he boasts. “One hat! And you can do it too!
See, when I have too many hats in life,
no problem! I just pass them to my wife.”