How better to commence a new blog than with an orphaned little nothing of a two year old poem?
My Hat
My hat on the floor where there never was a hearth rug
And the train takes a luxuriant bend up to
The elevated casino where it stops, by the pool,
And I alight, silent, gliding into the news that his
Grandmother is dead, that's why he's crying, and
You wonder whether this news is recent or if he
Knew before he came and pretty soon I will
Pick up my black, narrow-brimmed hat, not dusting it as I should.
