Souls Like Old Hats Poem by Patti Masterman

Strange how the soul knows
what it knows, when it knows-
These words are mine, and this proclivity;
this suits and that unnerves.

Avoid this, pursue that-
it's like a vast closet of hats;
And you won't wear just any:
it must be special- not one of many.

Fit perfectly on your head,
and just like your brain
Wants to be well fed,
(and occasionally entertained)

If you were a hat,
I'd wear you proudly
And never fret
or grieve too loudly,

I'd only take you off
to sleep,
And never toss you
on the heap.