What It's For

The shed smelled of gasoline and something sweeter—

old soil, maybe, or what wood does

when no one opens it for years.

The shovel was in the back corner,

leaning against the cinder block wall.

Paint on the handle—not from painting,

just from being near things that were painted.

Rust at the collar where the blade met the wood.

I picked it up.

The handle was worn smooth in two places.

Not from one afternoon.

From years of returning to the same grip—

the same two spots, because that's how you carry a thing:

you find the hold and you keep it.

I had no use for it.

I kept holding it anyway.

Outside, the afternoon went on.

I stood there in the smell of old work

and thought about putting it in the truck

and thought about leaving it

and did neither for a while.

I set it back finally

against the same wall, in roughly the same position,

and left it for whoever comes next to decide.

But I keep thinking about the smooth places.

How the wood remembered exactly.

How wood doesn't know

what it helped carry.