Natty dresser, that
Robinson’s window
shopping. Just lost
his job; he’s not
stopping anywhere.
Staring at finery
behind plate glass,
about to pass a florist’s
when he sees the sign:
Consider the Lilies,
so he does: how they
grow; they toil not,
neither do they spin.
Gives him the willies.
As literature, it’s pretty,
but those who swear
by it seem unstable
as three-legged tables.
Robinson prefers
to try to be good
for goodness’s own
sake, not for a stake
in impending reward.
But ah me of little faith—
being good is hard,
he sighs to the painted
board. Goes inside,
buys some lilies
for Ann. Dangling
from his gloved
right hand, their
waxen blooms bang
at his knees. I will
never be arrayed
like one of these.