A sea of them at the Polo Grounds, all turned

as one following the action on an unseen field.

My dad would not leave the house without his.

If he was outside he had his hat on, every photo,

as surely as the electric chimes at St. Vincent’s.

*

I had to order this one from Milan, the closest

I could find that matched his hat in style and cut.

I rarely wear it out, too fine a hat for this century.

Dad wore his hats out. They’d last a few years

then be retired to work-day status and vanish.

*

You had to stand up straight and square to wear

a fedora right, no slouching to Bethlehem Steel,

and the fingers on the brim in greeting were thick

and every man my dad met was named Mac.