Lost glove
There it lies on the side of the sidewalk on London Bridge.
Out of the way now, by a pedestrian kicked.

Once was one of a pair. Still is.
Only unpaired.
Unowned. Untogethered. Unbelonged.
Not sure where it is. Exposed.
No hand to keep it warm, to touch and be touched.
Unpurposed. Unpocketed. Possibly unhand-bagged..
What now? Unfound, it wonders.
Does the hand-bag know of it’s un-thereness yet?

Surely the other of the pair does.
While it sits snug at home wondering what happened?
Where did it go? The other that was not quite the other.
The mirror image of me.
When? Why? Planned? Unplanned?
Did it think I didn’t care enough to let it go?
Unseen, the other vanished. Wonder how?
What happens to my place in the world now?
How do I carry on being me?
Am I redundant? What good is one of a pair, lonely?
Useful yet no use. Not quite but complete.
Possibly good for one with one hand only.
Maybe that charity shop will have me displayed  in its window proudly.
Along with one fuscia pink cotton sock.
One half of a purple silk frock
One hesitantly glamorous off-white eye patch in lace.
One half of a funky Venetian mask face
One wrought iron key without a latch.
One lacquered wooden saucer with a huge scratch
One unworn silk ribbon laced maroon shoe in leather.
All perched on the threshold of forever.