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.
Fourteen Twenty 