Cover

Easter Sunday, 1956.
Lace-trimmed anklets
tucked into Mary Janes.
White gloves. Flowered voile dress.
Mother bobby-pins a circle of lace
over my bangs and pony-tail.

I never outgrew the chapel cap
until the church did.
Abiding by popular opinion.
Avoiding a response.

Trying on hats in a store on lunch break, 1978.
A co-worker thinks the wide-brimmed
low-crowned straw with its long
Alice-in-Wonderland ribbon
suits me.

She's surprised when I choose
something dapper.
Ignoring her response.

Another day coming to work
huddling in the cold,
a scarf over my head, I hear her say,
"You look like an old woman!"

But I'm warm,
if not feeling any warmth
toward her.
Not wanting a response.

Today I cock my straw fedora
with the bluejay feather in the band
and strut.
I want to wow the crowd.
I tickle grandchildren,
tease friends.
I become the center of my universe.
Not needing a response.

Some days the red wide-brim just won't do.
I can't carry off a flashy hat
shrinking from crowds,
listening,
walking slowly and quietly
so no one notices me
shading my face with a soft grey felt.
Repelling a response.

"I like your hat!"
Almost always from a person
not wearing one.
People tend to wear a hat
only to cover bad hair — or no hair.
Hats tend to make bad hair.
Heeding an anticipated response.

The ball cap keeps
hair out of my eyes, keeps
the sunspot on my nose from darkening,
the squint lines from deepening,
discourages a few mosquitoes,
gives me a tan line.
If I'm inadvertently eliciting a response,
nobody mentions it.

No hat these days,
since bloodwork showed
low Vitamin D.
Angling for a response
from the doctor.