I slip my hand into a new glove,

No, not mitten.

Glove.

Mittens are soft, 

Clouds for the hands, 

To fade, 

Slowly, into a plush

foreign warmth.

No, not mitten. 

Mine is a glove.

Mine is so cold,

and stiff. 

I laugh;

My fingers curl inside,

Altogether.

No, not mitten. 

Mine is a glove.

In its shiny black coating,

There are no seperate spaces

for each finger, 

in size order, 

Like a mitten has. 

No, not mitten.

Mine is a glove.

No one will know,

No one will care,

I think,

As I slip my hand inside,

My new glove. 

No, not mitten.

Glove.

It's just a new glove,

I think, 

No one cares, 

When I get new shoes. 

Why would they care,

I think, 

If I got a new glove? 

No, not mitten.

Glove.

Besides, 

I think, 

My glove will help me escape, 

The cruel cold. 

It will quiet me. 

No not mitten, 

Glove. 

It's a shame, 

I think, 

That I can't show anone, 

My new glove. 

No, not glove. 

Gun.