Red Glove

A poem I wrote, after seeing a red glove left on the ground in the commuting rush:

Little is more miserable than this dropped glove
Fingers of red wool, a pavement splatter
Soon, buried in snow, to rot in spring
Then carried off, swept up in litter

Dragged from a pocket with some frantic seeking
For keys or cash or things for flu.
Failed its owner, now half a pair
It has damned its comrade too.


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