work gloves

My work gloves
are in a poem!

They make my hands invulnerable.
I think they're made
of leather.

Still a bright and cheery yellow
after all these years. I've left
them in the sun for months, so
kind of faded on the thumbs,

but otherwise, quite cheery bright.

Their name is Wells Lamont. I just
discovered that. A cowboy name,

don'tcha think? There is a black
and strappy thing along the wrist

to cinch and tighten it, and which
I've never used. They're pretty tight
- I have to slide and jam my hands
in pretty good, and whack between
fourchettes (the panels in-between
that make the finger-sides - the front
and back panel is the "trank"!), alternating
with stiff tugs on cuffs, until
the whole thing's snug,

then I make fists and punch
opposing palms, with satisfying
catcher's slap, and clutch and reclutch,
grip, run knuckles under fingers, wave and
wriggle them as independent as they can

all muffled in their stiff and glovey brace

and interlacing, slide and lock,
withdrawal and smack, push in
and pushing back,
until my leather second skin

is broken in enough. And finally,
they're worn. I'm wearing them. They are

a little tight! My hands feel like
two wooden blocks. I might could break

a board! I love these things. I use them
every time I'm ripping weeds and brambles

out by roots, or rooting in the dirt,
or tossing blocks and logs, whenever I
have cause to want my hands to feel

invulnerable. Which so far has been
twice. These gloves

deserve a better owner. You'll
concede they have it easy, though.

A cushy gig,

to lie in sun,
atop a pile of aging wood,
and getting faded on the thumbs.

Filling up with spiders, maybe. Wouldn't be
a bit surprised. What if I never

put them on again? These gloves
have earned some kind of prize. World's laziest

work gloves. They do not look
ashamed at all. Just lying cheery
in the sun, all ready

and responsible.