The man on the corner stopped her short,
Signaling through the window at a pile of hats,
To a crisply woven straw fedora and satin bowtie,
He winked the remark, "I think that hat there, it was made for you, mam."
And then off he went down the crowded walk.
Perplexed I was as I carried on for nearly three blocks
'Fore I got the nerve to turn on back,
The enthusiasm for what he said had quite convinced me,
Never mind the fact that I'd never been much into hats.
The sloping brim curved above my brow with true perfection
And the satin folds gave the bright black bow such a shiny light,
The maker's name was a Peter Grimm, near a small white rabbit,
And it brought to mind how the month before she had felt her clocks blow,
And her soul fell a-flying down that rabbit's hole,
When the baby left, and the world turned darkly unfamiliar,
And she had no pill that could turn her back to big again.
Just her tiny, tumbling figurine of selfhood,
Behind an ever shifting mirrored wall of dreaming
Lost among the lines of the angry mind of the old Red King,
But the hat felt safe, and perhaps she'd even felt a wee bit taller,
Inches feel like miles when dimensions move beyond the realms of normal time.
Plus the ornamental headwear offered comfort,
And put a snap back in her step for just a beat...
With a silent thanks for the unnamed haberdashery advisor,
She and her hat with the ******* sash,
And the rabbit stitched in,
Bobbed along the seams of Seattle streets
With a joyful heart and a big broad grin.
