POEM - Top-ing Off

The lurking black shape
Calls to me
From the upper reaches of my closet
Begging for attention

As if hugging my cranium
For so many hours
Has put some magic
In that old top hat
Found roosting
In haggard environs
The hold out shops
Living at the tail end
Of Fourth Avenue
In the weird world
Of the Old Pueblo

It calls to me
Maybe not from its own internal awareness
But from a representation
A memory of my own
It makes me feel at home
Like I am back there
In the rummage shops
And archaic bookstores
Embraced by the freaks
At home with the crazies
Safe among the punks and hippies

All of it fits
Right up there
Maybe the Mad Hatter should look
A little harder up
Might find his sanity
Hiding in his top hat
That's where I keep mine
Right next to the door mouse
An extra hot cup of tea
And a porcelain dishfull
Of only the best butter