At the South Jersey seashore I
am racing the March wind for my hat,
a tan corduroy hat with a narrow brim
and a green band with a red feather in it.
I call it my Rex Harrison hat:
I like the way it strikes that haughty Henry
Higgins Pygmalion swagger and attitude.
I also have one of those wide brim felt
Indiana Jones hats,
and a suede cap
with a silk lining and a stiff brim I brace
on my lovable nose, the kind
the country club set wear,
and my official Cincinnati Reds cap
just like hall-of-famer Johnny Bench’s,
and a burgundy and gold wool stocking
cap that says Hail to the Redskins on it,
and my weathered white sailor cap
that saw me through the big war.
But none can measure up in my affections
to the rumpled Rex Harrison hat
which at this moment is sailing out to sea.
© Gene Williamson