Thursday Poem

Red Gloves
Andrew Motion

Reaching the restaurant late
I find the empty shells
Of your gloves on the cold curb:

Stretchy, crushed red velve
Which slithered off your lap
To float in the sodium stream.

What could they mean, except
You have arrived before me,
And simply taken your place?

The things we forget, or lose,
Live in a heaven of debris,
Waiting for us to collect them;

Already your naked hands
Are fluttering over the table,
Missing they don’t know what.