―Pitch‖ By K. R. Copeland, 2010
Gloves
John Milbury-Steen
My left hand frozen in my jacket pocket, I went around looking for my left glove, but hope is harder in the winter, so I threw away the right glove and I heard a chorus singing an approving chord. It snowed. I shoveled snow with both hands bare. I had to blow on both red hands before bending down for more hard labor (torture). Then my shovel struck — of course, you know — that missing left glove in a frozen torpor. Soon she would wake up and ask me, Sir, where is my mate? Red-handed, I would tell her when I determined all false hope should go, I cured myself by killing Romeo.
John Milbury-Steen