The Glove
by
on the door
that will not open
to the room
where no one lives
the glove is turning the knob
the glove is stitching
the wall of its tomb
with thread from people’s dreams
the glove is tracing
a red line with a red hand
in the shape of a glove
the glove is the caress
of your lover
after you’ve said goodbye
the glove is folded
over the head of a mannequin
in a painting by DeChirico
it is the grip of the plumber
who plumbs
your soul and finds
only another glove
the glove is the gentleman
who greets you
in dress shoes
holding a corsage
the glove lies quietly
on a landfill
knowing itself
as only a glove