The Hat With A Band

The hat is where he left it
He is not in the field
or on a stuttering tractor
The years have passed
I still expect a work-rough hand
to flip it over that comb-over
Its poor brim is bent down
He pulled at it in habit -
wore it in rain and sun, and
before he sloshed soapy water
on his face, he hung it at the door
It made a little thump as the rim
hit the frame
We have memories and faded prints
But there is nothing so precious
as feeling the sweat on the band
and the little red feather tucked within