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