Clay French Beret

hangs

in the back room

on a rusty hook

alone.

Dust for company

giving it weight

and age.

Hasn’t seen a head 

or sun

in a generation.

She remembers it

in occasional 

restless dreams.

Forgotten in the morning,

especially after coffee.

Jaunty expressions 

of vigor now lost. 

She keeps it

and will not 

donate it.

It lives 

in the way old people do:

hanging on

and sometimes, 

in dreams.