An Empty Glove

Whose hand has been in this glove at rest,

laid down for a moment while work’s recessed?

Created for labor, has it been blessed

by the hand which had filled out its form?

And when it’s donned, deep within the glove

is there strength and honor and hope and love?

Does its owner seek power from one above

or within, from his sinews and soul?

A poet or painter? A slave or king?

Does he bathe in wealth or feel hunger’s sting?

For him, is this glove overpowering

or a tool that’s used for his needs?

And has this hand held a girl or boy

or caressed a wife in their greatest joy?

Has art or music been its employ?

Has it helped build a nation or home?

Or, rather, has it abused wife or child,

or did those it caressed prove its vows defiled?

Should its behaviors all be reviled

or has it shunned excess of sin?

Could pain be languishing deep inside;

addictions and rage, despairing of pride?

With good support, might it ever abide

or make headlines that need thoughts and prayers?

But, could it be, on the glove’s last day

it was left on the floor in great disarray,

for no insurance can fully pay

for the loss of a hand, arm, or man.

Consider, too, whether this might be

early retirement’s audacity,

when illness or an infirmity

pushed him to play his last hand.

And if he’s younger, perhaps a war

has removed him from the workplace floor

to follow many who’ve gone before,

all those souls who may never return.

The answers aren’t here for us to know.

The glove upon the floor below

had no life but the ebb and flow

of the hand which has laid it aside.

By Ken Gosse

From: United States

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