“Wherever I lay my hat”, he said

Inferring home was there.

A state of belonging bound in felt

Anchored in darkest millinery.

He had his hat; his hat was home.

The putrid hostel beds and often doorways

Always home to him,

Never mind the ice-cold fingers,

Ripping at his worn sleeping bag

As Storm after storm assaulted the city.

He was warm within himself.

He had his hat; his hat was home.

A security blanket, nursing his psyche

Hiding him away from the hideous reality

Where the discarded homeless was a norm.

Society, uncaring, dismissed him and glanced,

Pouring hate fuelled derision his way

He had his hat; his only home.