The gent beside me on the train forgot
his faded, Harvard cap. When I looked up,
he was gone. So I put it on and became
The Golden Swede, who had set the record
for yardage against Yale, had two poems
in New World Writing, held hands with Sylvia Plath,
while she cried in her beer at the Harvard Grill.
It occurs to me that few people will care
about these things or the fact that I met
Myrna on the Cape one night and my life
changed and has been changing ever since.
Being golden afforded me some advantages,
but there was more to me than that old cap,
so I stopped wearing it. I sleep better now
that I've switched hats. I still have the cap,
but it simply isn't that important to me.
I keep it in a chest, along with my helmet,
my old jersey, news clips from the sports
pages. A couple of oxidizing paperbacks are
in there and a short note from Plath, "Thanks
for everything. You're a cool daddy."