Padded, blue, with some rents—
Wedged slightly askew
In the tennis court fence—
Here’s a hand, needing you.
It must have hung here for weeks.
Cotton filaments sprout,
Plucked out by bird tweaks.
Yet the glove reaches out
Asking for a handshake.
You feel it in your palm
The way it seems to ache
For the promised balm
Of the invisible fingers.
Somebody found this glove
And hung it where it lingers
On the footpath right above
The place where you turn
And resume your steady pace
Surprised by how you yearn
For such a ghastly embrace.
—Maura Stanton