 Memento by Brendan Savage My blue corduroy Heinz hat hanging on the wall across from my bed has a man inside. His freckled hand is plucking a deep red ripe apple from a tree. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his Heinz hat, yet this is no ketchup factory but an orchard filled with apple trees, three rows of millions. A blink and there is snow swirling around, more than we ever seem to get nowadays. Still, he remains busy in his shed. He twists and cuts and welds the old wheel frame into a brand new meticulously painted iron Christmas tree stand. All the while, his blue corduroy Heinz hat sitting snug upon his head. This hat has toiled in factories. It has seen rats burrowing beneath wooden beehives. It has seen houses built from the ground up and churches torn from the steeple down. I will certainly have to leave a memento, an article of my sweat or blood. I would like very much to live in a hat hanging high upon a wall.

My blue corduroy Heinz hat

hanging on the wall

across from my bed

has a man inside.

His freckled hand is plucking a deep

red ripe apple from a tree.

He wipes the sweat from his brow with his Heinz hat, yet

this is no ketchup factory

but an orchard filled with

apple trees, three rows of millions.

A blink and there is snow swirling around,

more than we ever seem to get nowadays.

Still, he remains busy in his shed.

He twists and cuts and welds

the old wheel frame into a brand new

meticulously painted

iron Christmas tree stand.

All the while, his blue corduroy Heinz hat

sitting snug upon his head.

This hat has toiled in factories.

It has seen rats burrowing beneath wooden beehives.

It has seen houses built from the ground up

and churches torn from the steeple down.

I will certainly have to leave a

memento,

an article of my sweat or blood.

I would like very much

to live in a hat

hanging high upon a wall.