Bowler, beanie, sombrero, cap,
ten gallon, and a fine ass fedora,
the hats I wear stacked high like
a Dr. Seussian pile of pancakes.
My neck sags, and inside my head’s
a three-ring short-circuit circus.
I’m a professional cockroach
capable of survival underneath
the soulless, energy-efficient
lights with a sensor that says
if I sit still long enough, life
will grow a shell and crab legs
that will scurry away from me.
Each time the room goes dark,
I come to my senses and rise
dramatically, like a staged mime.
What a forgettable performance,
they’ll say, as I tap my beret.