Hats

A droubble by EwanL

I liked tough guys in hats;
fedoras, homburgs, and trilbies.
In Noirland everything stayed
in black-and-white,
where the bad guys wore
the exotic kinds, with shapes
and materials that gave us clues
to deformed character.
Ever see a good guy in a Fez?
A panama? Or a Ushanka?
Zorro had his cordobès -
but a guy in pants that tight
must've had peculiar tastes.
The oaters ten-gallon signifiers
gave us all monochrome clues:
that black stetson was a death sentence
for Jack Palance, or Ward Bond.
Kee Mo Sabee's hat was the colour
of his horse. Hi Yo Silver!
The Yellow Peril and those Nazis
wore the same patrol caps
and their successors were
in fur-flapped,red-starred
headwarmers or woven,pointed wicker.
And now we watch
the bad guys on the news;
watch out for keffiyahs
or turbans, maybe a
papakhi or a kufi,
although no more true
than Tinsel Town's trite
simplifications
we rely so much on
this visual shorthand
that we forget the
most important thing,
the new wave lesson
that Bonnie And Clyde
or The Wild Bunch
taught us so well:
you can't tell now,
who the good guys are:
guess a hat isn't
what the movies need now.