Giant stacks of crisp new hats
Beg to be rescued from endless racks
Of dreary seaside tack.
Porkpies and trilbies,
And Wimbledon’s uniform –
Pure-white straw hats.
Too bad, I say back.
I was once pristine,
But now I’m battered,
With history and charisma,
And you can’t beat that!
He’s taken me places that you still dream of –
Hyde Park, Gibraltar,
Gatwick and Catterick.
In fact, any place
Where the sun puts on its flame-throwing act.
Squeezed in the rack on train and plane,
Scrunched in his rucksack when it starts to rain,
Or is plain cloudy.
I gladly soak up Factor 30 each day,
And Vanish to take the stains away.
It’s all in a day to be blasted with sand on breezy beaches,
Blown into puddles on platforms or pavements.
And I always spring back!
My straw is rotting and starting to snap,
My weave is fraying, my rim is splaying,
But I can’t be discarded, I’m not finished yet.
I’m him, he is me;
A battered hat,
A comfort blanket that won’t be sacked.
Copyright © Paul Costello August 2015
Paul Costello – Writer Website: www.paulcostello.me Twitter: @PaulCostello8