A small hat, the fedora,
gray-blue banded tweed,
sits atop an unkempt nest,
my unpicked hair, a bromeliad
in the canopy. This
is a failure,
this ill-fitted hat. These boy things.
These men things. This hurried
disrobing. My ashen body
and untrimmed nails. But who will listen
to the song of a nutbrown hen?