The hat and I

Mexico sounds like a lovely place
I tell the mysteriously ethnic hat
that hangs on my cubicle wall
And I wonder what that hat meant
to the nine-to-fiver before me
Who starred blankly at the exact same
spot that I am right now
And what his (or her) hopes were
and if she (or he) pinned this hat to the wall
With a purpose:
Inspiration maybe or nostalgia
for the days when life
meant living

There are a great many reasons
that could account for this
echo of existence,
hidden from all except me...

And it's fun, for awhile,
to stare at the hat
and read it's creases
like a story,

But it also makes me wonder this:
if you hang your hat up somewhere
And then forget to bring it with you,
What does that say about you?

Or the hat?