By Tariq Brathwaite
What is this old thing Laying on my front desk as if it was a king on a throne? It’s not a crown nor a snapback. Placing my hands on its visor, The visor felt like cardboard, But its skin felt soft as if I was spreading my blanket across my bed, The cap was drained of its color However, it holds a blue stitch. The kind of stitch that patched up its wound, Raising the cap over my head, Placing the crown on where it should, Feeling like a king to my own fashion Makes me feel old yet wise. The history this cap holds is old. Damn, I love this gray cap.
