Greg Moglia: The Gloves

                       The Beach House, by Mary Hatch, 1995, oil on canvas, 36” x 40”


The Gloves

The wintry day says gloves
Walk in the cold rain and it says gloves
Stop for lunch at the Tex Mex and it says
Gloves on the table to pencil my menu selection
The newspaper to read and it says to my spot by the window
The chicken, beans and rice plate and it says life is good

Time to go and where are my gloves?
On the table, in my briefcase, in my jacket and nothing
I look up and at the door a man in a sweatshirt holds gloves
Out the door he goes and doesn’t put them on
I see him walk down the block
They could be my gloves

I think I’m an old fool these days
I can’t chase him down the block
Maybe the gloves in a place I missed
Might even have left them home
No, he walks out with the gloves that say
Look here, left alone on the table

Left alone and it’s not a steal
He couldn’t just call out–anyone here lose these
Yet I want some sort of answer
Someone at fault…
Someone at kindness

Me not quite a victim
The man not quite a thief

Greg Moglia

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