Today I bought a summer hat,
east village, black, thin brim,
po-mo fedora, thought
it might make some appealing
cupola atop my body’s barn.
Second Avenue, St. Mark’s,
to Tompkins Square,
I kept it on. Walked up three
floors to my bathroom,
peed while looking in the mirror:
doffed the head-wear,
put it on a chair, and drew
this drawing. I wonder
what this gnawing angst
daubed large in stain-glassed
colors à la John La Farge
could have to do with all of that.
Perhaps I don’t much like the hat.
Or maybe it is clearer
I don’t much like the mirror.
.
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