This morning I dream you wear your hat;
the well-loved trilby that accompanied you
to the King George, where three-year olds meet
older horses.
You stand quietly, hands across your chest.
I imagine you posed like that,
calmly watching the 3:10; cigarette dangling
from your whiskers.
I step from behind, hand on your shoulder,
remove the hat, place it cocked over my eye.
All its privileges and undeniable luck released
upon my head.
