A fact, my father wore a hat.
It’s true, a stern brown one at that,
indeed, it’s so, and when
he tossed it on, a tad askew,
brushed back a strand of hair or two,
he’d give a half smile and then
-- don’t think that it was meant for me though --
off he went to work, not quite
as if he wanted to, not like
he really didn’t want to either.
All nice and properly.
A gentlemanly smile. He’d don
it, get across with it. Or on
him -- So was it, after all, for me?
Translated from the Hungarian by Thomas Cooper