Gloves

By: Isabelle Morgan

Digging blind through my sock drawer

To find the only pair of gloves I own. 

Too early to turn the lights on, so I lower

My nose to sniff for the smoke

That has stained the pilling fibers 

That weaves together the fingers

Of what I could spend. 

Of what I could afford last season. 

They really aren’t worth the search,

But the cold has already bitten 

my naked body. I’m still deciding on clothes. 

I’ll start with my hands,

Then I’ll make my way in

Covering the rest in whatever doesn’t make me itch. 

Whatever dulls this bony ache

That started before the temperature shifted.