Straw Hat

by Raymond Fenech


Decades seemed to burst
from each crevice in the attic,
where the straw hat lay
on a dusty rocking chair.

Steel cobwebs chained
to breezes swayed,
like mama’s hair,
threads of shiny silver grey.

I remember her wearing it,
to hide from the sun;
now in permanent shade
never to be worn again.

It’s of sentimental value,
but who will care?
When I’m gone someone
will stuff it in a garbage bag.

And winds will howl
through fissured walls
like lone wolves,
that vanish in cotton mists.

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