Rancagua partied, but I kept alone,
like night, and only went out that day because
smiled: I tried it on.
I tipped the hat in an "American" pose.
And though I bought it with an ironic bent,
it did its job: my hair was dry and I—
I grabbed a drink. It went wherever I went
from then on: weddings, art shows, late night diners,
and on that fateful whale watch. Do people
ever really see them? All I saw:
my hat ripped overboard, somehow peaceful
as it sunk into the salty maw.
So this is death, losing a treasured hat?
And yet I cannot stop weeping for it.
Andrew teaches British Literature outside of Boston, and has poems appearing or forthcoming in CutBank, Smartish Pace, Barrow Street, Permafrost, and The American Journal of Poetry, among others. He lives in Boston with his wife.