The Glove

The glove lay new in its box
Rich and grainy, unlike mine
Woven webbing, taut and clean
Rubbed into an oily shine.

In this box a birthday gift
The leather sewn surprise
Waiting for a fingered hand
To clutch its fallow hide.

One last graze across the grain
To feel the ball tucked in tight
I placed the lid back on the box
For alas,
There will be no catch tonight.

- M.A. Hines