Black glove left tenuously on the iron fence,
what hope have you for warmth again;
Begrudged by sniffing old dog noses
that reek of boiled bones' decay?

A little fingered friend you must have had.
Five digits in a balled up fist.
An alibi in several strikes
On sisters, even chalkboards.

Instinct tells me I should wait,
for its cold master to return.
Kneeling by the front gate now,
and whispering to the neighbours dog.
One gloved hand unclasps the collar;
her one blue finger points at me.

Β© Eve Redwater 2012


21 thoughts on “Glove

  1. LOL I always put a discarded or lost piece of clothing on a nearby fence or wall in the hope the loser will return and find it – I’ve never waited to watch but would be fun to see a smiling face when that glove was found :))

  2. Another compact version of a story that invites all sorts of filling-in-the-spaces-between images. One of your great strengths: telling us enough to be very evocative and full of potential, not so much that we are surfeited or tied to one dull storyline. Love it.

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