My husband and I started dedicating Tuesday to writing poems – funny, rhythmic, serious, lyrical, whimsical – whatever. Every Tuesday, one of us picks a *completely* random theme and we have the day to work; Tuesdays are way less dull now. In the evening we come together and share. We used to declare a “winner” and share via Facebook, but poetry isn’t about winning, so I will share both here! If you want to participate, leave a comment and I’ll share the theme when it rolls around.
Sometimes I see the jagged
Shaping, surrounding this life.
Each small piece can feel
Like being called the wrong name,
Or missing your exit,
Or forgetting your gloves on the bus.
(Not to mention War, and all the -Isms, and the Machine you are a cog in!)
The ice will start soon, into the
Making heavy pieces feel
But only through the cracks do I
Hear my own name from my own mouth,
Or my favorite song on the radio,
Or a stranger asking if those, on the seat, are my gloves.
Each piece heavy with kindness, if only I hear.
An Ode to the Gloves That I Found on the Train
to the fingerless gloves that i found on the train,
sitting all by themselves in a seat:
how’d you end up right there, out-of-place little pair,
in this car on this cold Boston street?
they must have belonged to a rider, you’d think,
who was used to warm palms but cold fingers.
have they not wondered how
their whole hands are cold now?
that’s a question that certainly lingers.
do they knit the whole hand and then cut off the tips
if a fingerless glove is the goal?
or they knit just halfway and then call it a day
so what seems just a half is a whole?
now this pair, i’m afraid, didn’t fit me quite right,
and besides, I already owned others.
So the gloves, I obtained,
took them off of that train,
and I left them, instead, at my brother’s.