four gloves I’ve lost
in New York City
I missed their warm enclosures.

One I received in tandem
with thirteen three-piece suits
my sister-in-law gave it —
all she had to give —
Though warmest,
I lost it on the wettest
December night
walking to the train
new guitar in tow
in the New York Rain
where Island Precipitation
meets Atlantic Nor’easter
inverted umbrellas
soused shoes and the
glove
in my mouth
swipe the card
in my hand
jump the stairs
catch the train
and
where did that black hand go?
it was my favorite

The second, it was snowing,
but not cold. No wind,
just snow and snow
then
a snow again
I set it on a subway bench by
my copy of A Tree Grows
and wrote the poem that came
before this one
(not published order, of course)
train
Tara
to Joe’s for…
and where the hell’s my glove?
Go back and get it,
she says
but she forgets sometimes that this
is not
Galena, Kansas
there will be no glove
especially no smooth leather
Replacement Glove
winter accessory
to electronic tech.
But I take the subway
anyways
deflated
thirty minutes there and back
BEHOLD!

my glove.
I too had favorites once…

The last two were
brown knitted mittens
Autumn
gave them to my wife
whose name means “Earth”
sometimes
we look at them laying on the dresser
Autumn went
and gave those to me
she says
She wanted me to give them
to someone cold, in need.
These will get lost in one of two ways:
they will become one more
eccentricity
in our tiny house of many things
left unsewn, ungiven, ungrown.
Or maybe they will be given
in spring
when the snow is melted
and its heat.

And it’s heat.

Oh thanks, the stankman will say,
These are lovely, the old Chinese woman
who collects five dollars
in cans
in bags
on the ends of that washed-up bowstaff.
They will both die
of summer-related illnesses.
“Greetings, you who are highly favored.”

cover image via zoghal

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about the 54 poems written at 27 ::

After much deliberation, I decided to keep the whole tradition of doubling my age and writing that many poems in a year. You’ll notice that April Thirtyish has already passed, so I’m late in posting. I’ve gotten about half of them written and will begin posting this week.

I started this whole mess with 46 poems written at 23, most of which are still up on the site and many of which are awful. Those poems I wrote because I read somewhere that the best age for poetry is 23. I was turning 24 and had an existential crisis.

Then I got over it.

Suddenly I was 25 and thought, “Why not do it again?” So I doubled my age and wrote 50 poems at 25. Again, most of these are still on the site and I’m proud of one or two of them.

Now I’m twenty-eight and it’s almost a principle, almost an undeniable fact of life. When the wild Lancelot is in his native habitat and his age is in an odd year, he will be secreting poetry. I do this because poetry is important, because we must take an active role in the creation of new language or else our language dies.

That means I must write, I must learn how to create better poems even if I’m awful at it — everyone must because the fate of our culture’s at stake. For me, this year, that’s 54 poems at 27.

So I’ll schedule these suckers out and give it a go. Follow along with the category 54 @ 27.

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