From Dirty Words: Selected Poems 1997–2016 by Carmine Starnino. Published by Gaspereau Press in 2020.

A snap-brim hat with a low, flat crown. It rides poor-postured

on a head, but canting it dappishly across your brow

‍

brings a look of light-footedness to your walk. You cock it back

for the brag and bluff of conversation, or dirty jokes

‍

with their not-in-front-of-the-children chuckles. Rain means

you bring it to your eyes, head lowered as you dash

‍

for cover. Men who wear caps are men who talk weather.

Mio cappeluccio, my father called his, and used his first,

‍

one summer dusk, to carry six yellow pears to woo my mother.

It’s supple enough to be crumpled into a coat pocket,

‍

and lifted to your ear, it becomes the immigrant’s conch,

the sea still broadcasting from it. When the old-timers nap,

‍

sitting, they hang it from a knee, a rim-mark in their hair.

Awake, they rarely take it off, in love with how it forces a day

‍

into declension, so that everything slows down—so slow

you have an opportunity to savour the moment now braking

‍

though your body as you pause, curbside, hands in pockets.

Oh, and its surprisingly cool grip on a forehead when slipped on.

‍

‍