Go on Grandad

On the coat rack behind the front door,
wedged above a waxed cotton mac,
forty years plus its condition is poor,
that’s where granddad keeps his flat cap.

The clear plastic lining drips lubrication,
leaves its mark on the back of his neck,
an all-weather helmet for any occasion,
Brylcreem stains on farmer Giles check.

He slides it on then settles it down,
tugs at the peak then twists the rim,
finds its place caressing his crown,
this daily routine becomes part of him.

Carefully conceals a comb over bald patch,
nan thinks is funny she has to laugh,
him and his hat have become too attached,
He even wears the damn thing in the bath.

From the hand down one arm,
across the thick of his shoulders,
down the other then into the palm,
once again goes that hat shaped boulder

A party piece that deserved a clap
when granddad stoops and rolls us his cap.