I am the boy who wears hats.
Like Bartholomew Cubbins,
I wear them for protection.
I wear them for warmth.
I wear them for flair,
Or to keep my hair—from flying.
Some I never wear,
Only hang them up
Like dreams upon the wall.
I wear them for the characters
That come out with full force…
I wear them by mood of course.
I never wear them to harm or to heal.
Those hats for me are just not real.
I’d rather feel the breeze in my hair
And warm rain on a face all bare,
Than use a hat’s frailty
As justification for brutality.