I’m Count Boruwlaski’s favourite hat, well
versed in waiting. Above my gilt peg
chandeliers wept leaded tears.
I lounged against conch-shell
sofas. Now I’ve pride of place
in museum-case.

‘What a stunning hat’ they purr
only just recalling not to add ‘for
someone of his stature’, mer-
blue and damask flowered topper. pre-
Carnaby Street. As
with much about my master’s life, he
wouldn’t have got away with me
if he hadn’t been a Count.

Sometimes, his wife’s stalactite fingers
brushed my surface, while their ruddy son
(at six already taller than
‘that little man’, his father) put me on.

When wife and child
                             departed
I got used to tiger-hearted
John Kemble’s beefy grasp.
                                        How the fat actor loved to clasp
my brim, handing me over, spending
days looking down
                          on my crown.

The original dumb-waiter, I’m Boruwlaski’s favourite hat, grand
in wind, snow, hail; used to the thunder-clap of Kemble’s hand.

                          See me stand
                          (gaudy chimney pot)
                          clocking time by tourists,
straining to catch - surprise -
                          my master’s cane
                          sounding stone, gentle as August rain.