Hats Optional.
Once, hats were not optional,
especially for church: a bobby-pinned hanky
better than bareheaded.
A man I knew kept every hat
his wife ever wore. Like snapshots
saved from days before her mind resigned,
her hats retired.
One was handed down to me.
A mound of Genuine Velour,
deep reddish-brown like horsehair,
yet soft as nap on a baby blanket.
Sewn to the linty crevice at the rim,
a pale satin ribbon halos the crown,
then spills down one side to dangle
a battered rhinestone ball.
I try jaunty angles, a laying on of hats.
Velvety chestnut sets off the silver in my hair.
Now, hat pinned in place, I'm off to the party,
rhinestones bobbing.
On the drive north, bright waves of fuchsia
cosmos crowd the median near Asheville,
each leafy stem flaunting her finery, as if
withering chill were a long way off.