Who told me we’d be given free tricorn hats?
I don’t remember, any more than I do
wanting one. But I must have, or I
would not have cadged my mother’s ruffled white
pearl-buttoned blouse, badgered her to make
me a vest out of the red coverlet
off the day bed, completed my outfit with blue
flared corduroys and wool-lined winter boots.
It was going to be a battle—the dead
British to be played by kids from P.S. 8—
no—a parade—a march—a drill beside
the Brooklyn Bridge—a rumor, as it transpired,
marooning us, Minutemen sans hats, loose
change in the deepening pocket of the past.