Words From the Fragile Spire

The Past Is a Picture-Show

In Praise of Hats

Hats; it starts with a dream, a longing for somewhere

over the hillside eclipsing the horizon,

eclipsing the future – beyond the day-to-day.

Hats; we come to the city, the blinding downtown

lights our only companions on these barren streets,

illuminating pools reflecting memories.

Hats; our inner-voice beckoned, "let's go out tonight,"

with a youthful timbre to remind us of youthful

times – but what once ascended smiles now descends tears.

Hats; as some lights flicker and fade, others ignite,

high and bright like headlights on a parade; perhaps

it's just the regular traffic through squinted eyes.

Hats; we disembarked from a late-night train taken

on the vein-line to the heart of the city, where

the fumes we breathe sustain us and flow our blood.

Hats; it's seven a.m. – sunrise shines between buildings,

like blinds, into our room, brighter than the brightest

neon-red clock could penetrate through a pitch-black sleep.

Hats; we end this Saturday-night soiree somber

as silhouettes on the navy-blue sky, and take

only our caps, our scars, into Sunday morning.