Inventory of the Lost Glove

It was wool the color of weak tea, left-handed, with a small constellation of moth-bitten stars across the knuckles. I find it now in the pocket of someone else's coat, in a photograph where my hand is doing nothing.

The bus driver swears he saw it folded on a seat like a sleeping mouse, warm still from a wrist that had gone elsewhere. A woman at the laundromat claims she pinned it to her bulletin board for weeks.

In the city of lost things there is a long hallway lit by amber, and each object hums in the key of the body it once belonged to. My glove there, my voice nearly remembering.

Snow keeps falling on the bench where I think I last unhanded it. The other glove waits in my drawer like the surviving twin, practicing its half of every gesture.