Margaret Eddershaw
The Hat
I could swear the dog
sometimes wore the hat.
Cheeky, porkpie number,
at an angle,
almost in flight,
whereas the body,
both bodies, rotund,
earthbound, swayed
on legs bent as
eighteenth century chairs,
buttocks flinching in unison. But
the dog never wore the glasses.
I remember the man
peering at distorted trees.
Side by side in the park,
he on the bench-end,
dog hunkered by a trouser-leg,
pale bellies matched.
Today the man sat alone,
ghost of a lead in his hand,
hatless.
Page(s) 24
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