PS Cottier

In cut-off gloves I can cup
my phone; the oblong light,
and message and swipe
just as I would with only
pale thin gloves of skin.
The poetry anthology,
just arrived from Adelaide,
can be flicked in cut-off gloves.
The flat white slowly sipped,
the essential bling displayed
on cool growths of fingers.
Those crops of pink asparagus,
embedded in the cut-off gloves
sprout towards the glowing words,
etiolated, and punctuated
by the warming medium
in which I plant them.
This very poem can be written
in what it seeks to praise —
woollen, orange, cut-off gloves.
And stuff these Canberra days.

PS Cottier

I know that the image doesn’t really fit the poem, but I like it so much that I had to use it. This is an old poem, from 2016, first published at Project 365 + 1 (Project 366), where I wrote a poem a day for 30 days.

I think fingerless gloves are also called Fagins, after Dickens’s character, but the illustrations I found of Fagin did not sport gloves. Here are the gloves to which the poem is addressed: