Dusty and cracked,
old felt receding from old seams,
dappled with fading black,
scented lightly of must
and mold

And then—underneath the age—
a hit of light perfume,
he nervous grip of a moist palm,
then clapped on the gentleman’s head,
his lady on his arm

The heart-shaped staircase, red carpet unfurled—
covering the raw edge of the marble.
And they sway, hand in hand,
the sweet odor of lilacs
under the mandolin breeze

They stroll along the cloud-lit streets
a light rain dripping—
absorbed by the patient hat
and the lady’s dove shawl.
They are too close to feel it

And at her door, he tips the hat,
a rivulet of pooled water
falling to his feet.
Soaking and beading on leather shoes
here in the doorway they stand, loathe to part

But the night must end, and end it does—
and the young man dances home
with flying feet and heart
The hat hangs by the fire,
curls of satisfied steam rising into the air

The days go by, but the hat
remains
Styles change, but the hat
remains
Dust gathers
Cobwebs form
And it loses itself to the world

Then the door slops, protesting, open
and the sun tumbles onto the poor black felt
then clapped on the gentleman’s snow-white head
his lady takes the offered arm...
They waltz, hand in hand.