A conical black hat with moons and stars,
Pulled from the rubbish pile on that day
When on-line games, and girls, and guitars
Became the stuff of adolescent play.
It’s on my office bookshelf where it’s stowed
Up top, the dusty cast-off’s habitat,
With things I never use but won’t unload.
An old, abandoned, dress-up wizard hat.
If now and then some visitor desires
To know about my hat then I reply
That sometimes magic’s what my job requires,
And when it does I give the hat a try.
In truth, the presence of this hat proclaims
I wish my children still played childish games.