I washed my hat.
As the muggy fumes of soggy wool drifted up from the bathroom sink, I wondered,
Had it ever been washed before?
It didn’t resist – as I plunged it again and again into the greying eddy.
It became a slimy rag. It surrendered to the soap and warm water and gave up its claim to being a hat.
Perhaps I have ruined it?
Perhaps I should have left it?
I treated it to a blue rinse of fabric conditioner.
It is an old hat. It’s the least I can do.
It has kept my head warm for many years.
It is me. I am identifiable by it.
Its black and white stripes are often seen around our local streets.
It drips onto the shower bowl, hanging from the hose, like a massive striped tongue, drooling saliva.
Hangdog. Waiting. Waiting to dry.
Tonight Mish is inviting us to write about hats – metaphorical or physical, or any other form thereof. Read some fascinating hat facts and responses from the d’Verse poets at this link: https://dversepoets.com/2022/03/15/poetics-leave-your-hat-on/. I wrote this a wee while ago.