They brought me lots of hats,
brown, velvety and round;
none fitted, none would stay on.
Just four I think I was.
Still they bring me lots of hats,
ask me to put them on;
none fit, though I struggle to
wear each one
with calm authority, easy,
with the suggestion of a smile.
The children force me into them,
mostly the children,
constrain me in my masquerades;
the nurses’ caps indifferent
white,
lacking crisp starch;
the mortar-boards sadly askew,
wildly adrift on the homework floods
of modern technology, of science;
the priests’ birettas, waiting for
the moment,
perched on questions, open to
attack;
the judges’ wigs uncurled, lank,
looking rather silly anyway,
powdered with the tired dust of
yesterday’s convictions;
the Mrs Mop headsquares hanging
dull,
drooping hopeless over the
necessities of keeping up
appearances, appearances;
the soldiers’ forage caps awry,
dangling at crazy angles,
scorched by sniper fire of
trigger-happy troops,
the infantry whooping it up
in ecstatic battles of words and
wills,
and won’ts.
More and more hats;
if the cap fits, they say, wear
it;
if the cap doesn’t fit, I wear it
still,
being a mother.
I cross my fingers and hope it
stays on
long enough, just long enough,
to persuade them
that it fits.
Yet sometimes, tonight maybe,
I go out wearing my other hat,
the one I chose myself,
the one I am a little afraid of
losing,
the one that really fits.
(September,
1988)
