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I Wonder if He Wore a Fedora

He passed a few months ago.
I looked through a few pics
of him when he was young.

He grew up in the depression,
so there weren’t many.
Black and whites, no dates.
None of him smiling,
just a vacant stare,
familiar at that time,

Hand me downs clothes
of a cotton farmer,
Hardscrabble life for this 
child of the 30’s.

He didn’t talk much 
about that life.
Well, a few times:
how he got two pairs 
of shoes a year, 
oranges for Christmas.
Patched pants so short,
the kids made fun of him.
Never made it past the eighth grade.

By the time he was eighteen,
his hands looked fifty.
Twelve to fifteen hrs.
a day picking cotton will 
make a young man old.

I picked up another picture.
Some other man from the 30’s,
sitting on a bench in front 
of the Memphis Zoo.
Wearing a Fedora.
Sophisticated looking.

I wonder if my dad wore a Fedora.

I asked a lot of questions
when I was young. 
But that wasn’t one of them.

I can’t ask him now,
but I know what he’d say.
“Those were for the rich, son,
The Boss-man.”

“Not common folk like us,
who knew their place.
You can’t be more
than you are.”

But he was wrong.

Although he was raised 
poor common folk,
he worked all his life.
Loved one woman. 
Raised his children right
and loved his God.

He died a rich man.
He would have looked 
damn good in a Fedora.

11/5/16

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