Tin Trailers, and Denim Hats

I wear my Da's hat, huge,and sturdy.
It tilts loosely like the abandoned marker
of a forgotten relative.

He called this ill fitting crown "Darcuii's prize"
His "beautiful little beast"
in this tiny patch of forest,
pushing up daisies,goldenrod,and gimsom weeds.

Small spaces, boxed in
small thoughts,that coffin
of barely insulated stick,and Comet blue tin
never seemed the appropriate burial suit.

At least not for me. When I was young
I haunted our town,
an attempt to stay clean, upright,
like our front steps,
grieving under the weight of its dirt,

I always fell in disrepair,
whenever that tombstone weighed too much
upon my back,and my mind.

I wear my Da's hat. Its broad brim framing
my features in softness,
like satin pillows made
to make you look lovely in dying.

A gathering of spirit,and stitch sewn
from shrouds of sweat,and blue.
My look of homecoming,
when the dead are invited to lunch.

But the neighbors, proper mourners,
never saw the beauty of our rows,
white, and erect as the sun.

They only saw gnarls in the engravings,
and offered their condolences
behind closed doors;
sorrowful looks as I passed by.

But Da laughed like it was a drunken Irish wake.

And I dreamed ...
of houses, breathing,and beautiful
with sweeping cliches of landscapes.

Dying was simply a blur
laid out on the horizon.
None ever seemed so alive as my Da dancing
in that cemetery of an old rickity trailer.

I wear my Da's hat. It is a polished marble,
as I recall that place made ash
in a procession,
of faces, and places,progressing through.

I can see it now
as real as this cap upon my head
for the sacred mausoleum that it was.
Grannie used to say ...

"Graveyards are always the best place to find a little peace."