The Day of the Single Glove
Hibernating from the spring until Autumn,
who knows where, maybe under garden heaps,
now triggered as December snowflakes come,
the single glove now rouses from it's sleep.
On pavements fingers point accusingly
or maybe show places where one might slip,
one looked liked it was going to pounce on me
and hold my throat in some icy death grip.
I know it's self propelled, that I can prove,
I've gone past one and left it on the ground,
yet later walking back it's surely moved
up on a wall, near where it had been found.
On a fence post, one finger in the air
a gesture showing that it doesn't care.
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