The Hat Factory, a prose poem by David Burn by David Burn published on 2024-01-05T18:56:21Z The Hat Factory I have a big head and curly hair too. Consequently, few hats fit me. The only hats that do fit me well are fitted hats. Seven and seven-eighths. If the cap fits, I wear it. But what about all those times that the hat does not fit? Like the time I started an agency and wore the account director’s houndstooth fedora, the strategy director’s straw bowler, the media director’s beret, the creative director’s baseball cap, and the production director’s hardhat? There’s no way to wear them all well, or all at once. At night, when the hats came off, I wore a sweatband. It was time to invoice and remind clients about unpaid bills. Again. Time to look at the designer’s books that the recruiter sent over. Time to clean my inbox. Update the website and social. Port data to the new CRM. The task management tool feels for me. Creative people sometimes believe that they’re the engine of the agency business. It’s an interesting point of view. Creatives do dream things up, and when the client whisperer at the center of the scene makes it possible, they get to make the things they dream up. Provided it all gets approved up the chain and paid for. Provided it gets called for in the first place. Let us pray. Poetry for the people. Products and services for the people. People who giveth not an iota about your numbers, or the pool of sharks eating away at your market share. So, there’s blood in the water. It’s a daytime drama. I come to you as a writer. A writer who has also won dozens of accounts for my startup agency. Did you know that Columbia Sportswear (a former client) was a hat factory in the beginning? Columbia Hat Company they called it. Started by refugees from Nazi Germany. Gert’s parents. After 13 years, my hat company came apart. I didn’t have to let it linger, but I did. Time and heat are fertilizers. At last, a new compost is ready to spread. What was, is, and what is, will soon be what was. Think of the summer sun. This is Texas. Rugged, rocky hills. Lost pines. Ocotillo near the drive. Red Lantana along the walk. Language dry. Precise. In places voluble. In Texas, there’s room. Hold on, let me fetch the sombreros. Genre Storytelling