At Mile 4 of the Turkey Trot

Cast to the side of the road,
a single black glove in the grass,
its fingers sucked in as if
pulled off in haste. And finding
it here you might consider
how easy it is to lose things.
It has been raining and grass
is puddled and soft and the glove
is damp and limp. You may
consider bringing it home,
despite its uselessness as a glove.
You could, for instance,
write a poem on it about
how lucky we are to have hands
at all. You could hang it like art
on the wordless wall. The afternoon
is windsome and gray, and the cold
finds its way through your hat,
through your coat, and feeling it
you might consider how fragile
we are, really, covering ourselves
as we do with these clothes
until our bodies are seen not so much
as bodies but as likenesses of flesh.
You aren’t sure, really, why you
pick up the glove, but you do,
and begin to imagine the hands
of all loved ones that you love to hold—
and the world deepens right where you are.
The day is still cold. The glove is still
empty. But inside you, a warmer
thanksgiving takes hold.

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