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A Tattered Hat

Abandoned?  Not really.  Blown
off the balding brow of a man
who loved the comfort and security
of old familiar things.

He wore it through the years
he wandered seeking sights he hadn’t
seen, hoping he might grasp
the mystery of ancient wisdom.

Came the time he felt he’d seen
enough of new. He cherished 
the certainty of the habitual.
Found comfort in his well-worn
shoes, his creased and baggy pants,
a shirt the color of his skin,
but most of all his hat which
hardly could be called a crown.

The hat became a talisman,
a good luck charm he couldn’t
do without, an oddity of costume. 
distinctive, unmatched.

It had acquired character, discolored
by sweat and stain, by rain
and shrinking sun, became his logo,
a pennant of rebellion, a declaration
of freedom from conforming rules.

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