Victor's Hat (Poetry)

They’d been and cleared the place
except for dust, a pile of books
and his old brown felt hat
left hanging on the rack
as though at any time
he might come back for it.

Retrieved, like some forgotten trophy
from the years of waiting to be worn again
while age found him indoors beside the fire
not talking much, his hearing all but gone.

I took it home, imagining
the hat held something of him still —
an imprint round the darkened rim
sweat’s long-dried residue
the clue to what he’d for so long
kept under it.