The Handkerchief

M.E. Tuthill

Back in the day, the hanky,
In high esteem was held.
Tucked inside a lady’s purse
Or ‘neath a gent’s lapel.

Embroidered, stitched and sewn,
Always within reach
To share a tiny sniffle.
Or clutch across the breach.

Supplanted by the tissue,
Ubiquitous and white,
Discarded and disposed of.
No end to it in sight.

A mother’s hug, a distant love,
The soft square cloth evokes.
Remnant of another time
In gossamer is cloaked.

Square-end, puffed or pointed,
Today is de rigueur,
Perched inside the pockets
Of grooms and raconteurs.

Let’s hope we never see the day,
It does not come to pass.
The handkerchief, an artifact,
Encased and under glass.


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January, 2010