Basket, Hats, Man, Wind

Originally posted 5/17/2013.

Once upon a time,
there was Basket,
and there were 
hats in Basket.

Blue cap.
Black beret.
Red beret.  

All day long
a man living
in the apartment with Basket 
changed what hats he wore:
blue cap for the world,
black beret for family,
red beret for his lover. 

After dark
he sat on the fire escape
hatless,
city wind
snaking through
the brick and mortar,

whipping past other bachelor nests
to end up in his hair, 
fingers tousling through
as if the wind
were yet another lover
with a ingrained disdain
for hats.

There was Basket,
Basket full of hats.  There was
a man who changed hats
all day long.  
There was a wind longing
to become a thief, a vandal:

blue cap
to be left on the waterfront.  
Black beret
to be flung into an alley.  
Red beret
to be hung on a fence out of reach.

Go away wind, said the man one day.
I love your fingers and the way you seem
to end up here instead of with other men

but more than that, I love my hats.
If ever I give them up,
it won’t be because
you’ve taken them from me.

Go away yourself, said the wind.
I love your hair a bit, but more than that
I love thinking of your hats disappearing,

escaping, ending up in disguises, 
in the trash,
anywhere but on your head.
I want you without a hat
and I will do hurricane things
to make that happen.

Go away both of you,
said Basket.
Each of you 
is narrow and stubborn
and unchanging. 
My hats are the only thing
that makes either of you
interesting. All your talk
of some imaginary
bare-headed realness
is wasting my time,
and when you’re both quiet,
when it’s just me and the finally
unsymbolic hats in the dark,
that feels like the start 
of the happy part
of happily ever after.