The Invisible Hat
I wear so many hats,
so many hats I do wear,
that I’m never quite sure if I’m coming,
going, here or there.
My mommy hat is neon green,
so that from far away it can be seen.
It blinks and glows, makes shrieks and groans,
and subsists solely on caffeine.
My grown-up hat is a dry-clean tweed,
so mature and responsible and ready to succeed.
It sits upon my head to make sure the pets get fed,
And that the mortgage is paid on time and my check is guaranteed.
My book critic fedora has a press card in its brim,
so focused when on deadline and find it necessary to skim.
Three books are due within days, their plots a total haze,
‘Hallelujah’ I cry out when I see the final tome is slim.
My last hat is an invisible one,
seen by none.
It’s heavy on my head, it’s weight like that of lead.
Its burden is all the writing that must get done.
No one sees this hat that sits upon my head.
Because the hat does not go to work outside the house, instead
It can be seen at the kitchen table, working on a fable,
Or plotting a mystery from the bed.
To my family I must be fair,
It is me who thinks the hat isn’t there.
My author hat does not yet pay bills or provide luxurious frills.
And so it often gets pushed aside, waiting for a moment to spare.
Only recently when people bother,
to ask what I do, do I say ‘writer’ instead of stay-at-home-mother,
I have a book coming out next year, it’s time I am clear,
I must make my invisible author hat glow like that of any other.