When I Say Theft

Years of leather molding itself to his skull resulted in this:
a hat that fits my head as if it belongs to me. His deathbed rid of fentanyl but what could strip his
hat of burned wood bistre, the pine tar perfume inoculated in my nostrils from days spent reeking
of scuffed cotton jeans and tobacco musk, caught in hair I cradled against my chest, swept from
my face, picked out of every midnight meal shared by lamplight on the back porch
warm breeze and cicada serenade.

Today I buried my face into his hat,
drew up all it contains and found
it smells only of me, salt wet leaves and dust
floating above the spines of closed books.

When I say theft, this is what I mean.