Dad's Hat

Dad’s hat for many years sat, despite his being long dead,
rakishly at the ready, flung on dining table or chair seat
as if owner was preoccupied with an ever present project.

Jaunty brim barely resting, expectantly awaiting its home
on a brow that plowed uses of wood or paint, Dad’s fedora
remained creased like the wrinkle on his nose when furrowed
in thought as he sought to sketch an Arizona landscape
or solve a practical problem burrowing into his day.

Dad had considered himself  invincible, and so did she,
though left in his wake in both life and death.

first published in Northern Stars Magazine