As lovers welded by their passion
hands, by gloves, encased in fashion
And though they are as second skin
They let naught out and less comes in

When they stroke you – silken touch
No warmth, no sign, you can’t feel much
The gloves themselves absorb from each
Unfeeling lie, devoid of speech.

Smooth facade, so uniform
They bring you shelter from the storm
Promote a sense of charm and grace
And tightly keep each thing in place.

So close, and yet they cannot feel
their fellow fingers – are they real?
Do they protect or do they smother?
When I see gloves, I see my mother.