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Grandfather's Hat
James Pryor

It's black, with a United States Marine Corps patch.

Hidden in its brim, a cheap electronic music device

plays a poor rendition of the Marine Corps Hymn.

It still carries his sweat

absorbed over years.

I just found one of his gray hairs.

There is a picture of him with it

sitting in a lawn chair with his cane

at his parents' grave in Chapel Hill.

He had it because of me.

It made him proud

even though he never said.

I made him proud.

Now it sits, in an unceremonious

and ironic place, on top of a grandmother clock.

It looks across the room

from its vantage point.

He looks across at me.