adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Gloves, a poem

Gloves

For your amusement, I made balloon
animals of the surgical gloves.
There was a supply, bedside,
ready to the nurses’ steady,
sturdy hands. I milked that cow,
made that rooster crow, diverted

you but Styx sticks to its course.
Carried further toward the dark
of whatever Hades held for you
in his own dexterous hands, were you
reaching toward them even as I
transformed latex and kept my watch?

Was it for my amusement, I made
balloon animals as you took
the long way around to death?
Divert me. Let me laugh at my own
corny jokes and never notice
that river, that stick of licorice

that twists away and back again
for each of us. I only twisted
gloves, inflated with my living
breath and tied so it would not
escape, to give some brief existence
to balloon animals. For your amusement.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

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