My Hat

I want a hat.
Make me a hat,
large and flowery,
with strange, grasping
appendages.

Make me a rude hat,
one which will snatch
and clutch
at people on the bus,
while I sit calmly,
pretending not to notice.

Make me a party hat
out of old circus posters,
with tiger claws, dog-faced boys,
and lion fangs.
Paste it all together with clown glue,
and pink, cotton candy.

Let my hat grow rowdy,
unmanageable,
let it sneak out at night,
lead a pack of wild dogs,
turn over garbage cans,
steal cars.

My hat could pan-handle
downtown, lying open to the sky
next to a sleeping bum.
My hat could become my best friend,
tell me stories,
bring me snacks.

I would learn to trust my hat.
It would cover me
when I ran out of a foxhole.
It would hold on tight
when I swung on jungle vine.
It would whisper secrets to me
while I waited for that knock on the door.

In the end, my hat would become
old like me.
Cough up phlegm,
move real slow,
mumbling to strangers.
Friends would tell me to box it up,
put it away in the closet,
close the door
and forget.
But I would never betray my hat.
It would stay perched on my head
till they boxed us both up,
lowered us down
into the ground
together.