Tricorne [poem]
I wear a three-cornered hat.
Not by choice
for on my head it has been thrust
like a prickly crown of thorns;
never before has such a cap
by my sore head been worn.
But on my skull sits
this stereotype
a swashbuckling symbol
of piratonic fantasy
of 1700s military
colonial or pilgrim mode
take your pick
as you wander down the road
in that strange triangulation
into which I softly strode.
There is an irony of sickly sorts
(more than 1 if truth be known)
in this anachronistic dress —
this crysome costume of
ancient Tricorne tristesse.
For in its heyday it was used
as a way of keeping water from the head.
The rain would fill and fall instead
upon the shoulders underneath
a sloshing mess of watery waste
(just like my tears which you can taste).
A Fedora would have been more the thing —
a Panama even better
for men who wear such garb atop
swagger and strut;
but here I am, my manhood cut:
a period clown.
(In earlier times in this attire
they’d ‘walk the plank’
[not by desire]
and drown in seasome
watery graves
just as I do now).
It should have been a dunce’s cap
a pointy little cone —
The 3D version of the one
which currently I own.
Some day soon I hope to rest
and substitute this hopeless crest
for something more appropriate:
A Balaclava would be cool
(disguised I’d sweep you off your feet).
Commando’s beret perched above
to rescue you from burned-out love.
Or Bowler Hat with city slick —
you’d be impressed and
quickly fall into my waiting arms
and by my wealth you’d soon be charmed.
Or how about a Stetson
to complete the cowboy kit?
“Happiness is a warm gun”,
the words upon my lips.
And then you’d melt and leave behind
once and for allsome troubled time
commit yourself to bonds anew.
Then as I watched I saw you threw
that now outmoded
three-cornered hat
and any other stuff like that.
You sent it on a one-way trip
To tell the truth
it never fit.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 