GLOVES:

He wore a torn dingy shirt with the cuffs turned in,

Hiding the patches, the stains & the wearing thin,

The shrunken, dun coloured vest that he daily wore,

Was knitted by kind ladies in the house of the whore,

They made dun coloured vests for little kids like him,

Kids fabricated from old cold bones and motley skin.

He´d sit all alone, on the icy stones of unending time,

Silently waiting for the school bell to beckon and chime,

He was new, poor, knew no one and had not one friend,

Feigning nonchalance he´d sit alone, trying to pretend,

All but him had colourful jerseys, looking warm as a rug,

Thick socks and boots, shiny polished, fitting tight & snug.

Boys with round bellies full and oiled hair brushed bright,

Mouths filled with smiles, not cold teeth, rigid and tight,

They were lucky having no mauve knees, bleeding & grazed,

No lost little eyes that were old, tired and unloving glazed,

They all went laughing, pushing, running and passed him by,

But there was only one thing that he envied & made him sigh.

What this little lad envied most, of all those well-to-do boys,

Were not the packed lunches, nor the rich and shining toys,

But garments they wore on their hands, soft & fluffily fingered,

That left warm wooly caresses that loved and softly lingered,

To him, they looked as soft as the under-wings of grey doves,

Little five-fingered garments, that the other kids called gloves.