Life is Like a 1940s Hat

Useless and de trop, though
with a certain I-don’t-know,
bedecked protuberantly à la mode –

as if protuberances were a code
to be decoded to persuade you
they had meaning – leaning

at unpalatable angles, plumed
with feathers one cannot believe
were ever tethered to a bird: spilling

from its girders, willfully absurd:
life is like a 1940s hat. Unless,
of course, it’s not at all like that.


 
 
 
 
 
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