The hat is where he left it
He is not in the field
The years have passed
I still expect a work-rough hand
to take it from its peg,
to check the red feather in its band
Its poor brim is bent down
He pulled at it in habit –
wore it in rain and sun
He hung it at the door
before he sloshed water
on his face
It is as much him
as his face or feet or voice
I can’t bear to wear it
Wow, John, have to agree with Emjay’s comment, the slosh of water seems almost to fall across our own faces, snaps you right into it!
Love this. Thanks for sharing.
The lines ‘before he sloshed water / on his face’ snapped me away from picturing the hat to picturing his face (as I imagine it, obviously) making it very personal.
I have a black coat I can’t bear to wear.