I slip my hand into a new glove,
No, not mitten.

Glove.



Mittens are soft,
Clouds for the hands,
To fade,
Slowly, into a plush
Foreign warmth.
No, not mitten.

Mine is a glove.



Mine is so cold,
And stiff.
My fingers curl inside,
Altogether.
No, not mitten.

Mine is a glove.



In its shiny black coating,
There are no seperate spaces
For each finger,
In size order,
Like a mitten has.
No, not mitten.

Mine is a glove.



No one will know,
No one will care,
I think,
As I slip my hand inside,
My new glove.
No, not mitten.

Glove.



It's just a new glove,
I think,
No one cares,
When I get new shoes.
I laugh;
Why would they care,
I think,
If I got a new glove?
No, not mitten.

Glove.



Besides,
It will quiet me.
I think,
My glove will help me escape,
The cruel cold.
No not mitten,

Glove.



It's a shame,
I think,
That I can't show anone,
My new glove.

No, not glove.
Gun.