Silver and square, a relic in your palm.
It was the one he trusted, you said,
to size planks for the skiff he was building
in the driveway, or, later,
for the kitchen cabinets your mother
had pleaded about for so many years.
It always came down to an inch,
or, more likely, a quarter inch
or five-sixteenths. Decisions always do.
“Measure twice, cut once” was the fail-safe rule.
And when he shook my hand for the first time,
and looked me quickly over
with a carpenter’s query,
I had to wonder
if any future husband measures up.
Now you use the marked metal tape
when you’re shopping for curtains
or have to know if a table will fit
where it’s needed. You carry it in your purse,
among glasses and keys,
the occasional piece of hard candy.
You want to keep it close, handy.
