It’s something to do with your hands
    when all doing is done, something

 

that’s not a damp hand or soaked
    handkerchief, something to keep

 

you from fainting, escaping too soon
    the perfumes of the lilies, the ladies.

 

Not even a picture of Jesus
    in the garden, in agony. Still,

 

it’s something to read to distract
    from the drone of the preacher, the future,

 

this list of groceries, hosiery, hats and caps, crockery, cloth
    from Gainsley, Smith, Company. These days

 

we don’t keep a skull on the desk
    to remind us of death. No need

 

when the Globe Casket Company ruler
    implies we should measure what’s left,

 

and the Boudman insurance thermometer
    scolds and reproaches us till

 

we get used to them both.
    We get used to most things in the end.

 

At least a fan’s something to take
    home, can be something to clutch

 

on the back steps after supper,
    the dark coming on.