David Whittingham

The cursed glove

Here I am ever to remain,
Forever with my twin,
Bound together,
In eternal slavery,
Until death
He and I,
Different but the same,
Together forever,
Both slaves,
To the masters,
those who use us,
and of cource abuse us,
However we behave,
Better a slave to a good master,
Than stepped on by society,
We serve a purpose,
We are the eternal glove,
There when necessary,
Forgotten otherwise,
Just a tool for cleaning the mess of others,
Doing humanities dirty jobs,
A thankless task.
Stuck at the back of the cupboard,
Used and used and used,

Until one day,
the strain is too much,
The dirt too strong,
and obedience too much,
and we realize,
we've out lived our purpose,
And are abbandoned,
And eventually we ask ourselves,
This is what we have come to,
Lying on the dirty work surface,
Lost in yesterdays washing up,
Covered in excess food,
And muck and dirt and dogs hair,
The waste of the ignored kitchen,
Left to decay and rot in this filth,
How does it come to this?
To be abandoned thus,
We always behaved,
Did our work with no complaints
Why hast thou forsaken my purpose?
Why am I thus cursed?
Indeed the question is begged,
How can any curse cause me problems?
How can anything make my life worse?

Never ask questions like this,
Life can always be worse,
In ways we never imagined,
We came to realize,
That maybe uselessness is the worst curse,
Or old age,
Or having the spark go out,
Despite life just beginning,
Or contiuing in sweetness,
Or so it seems,
I am worn out,
My protection no longer required,
Like a spent candle,
Shall I cast my light no longer?
Perhaps to burn one last time,
Despite my age,
And the occasional hole,
To flourish with my last breath,

My usefulness over,
I opened the final jar,
I bathed the last time,
I protected the masters,
With my last breath,
Now we are rewarded,
We’re stuck behind the sink,
And forgotten,
Finally the curse takes effect,
My twin lost,
I am alone,
A glove without a hand,
Is the ultimate heresy,
Ripped from my original purpose,
I am bereft,
Lost in the universe,
Unable to fulfill my purpose,
I clean and protect, therefore I am,
Or indeed,
I was.
But of course I’m old now,
A bit shabby around the edges,
Occasionally leaky,
But still good enough,
To block the mouse hole.

Perhaps age,
And aging,
Are natures true curse.
How would I know?
I’m just a disposable kitchen glove,
Cursed forever.
To live forever,
Un biodegradable,
On the landfill that is the world.

Or the old folks home,
depending on how you read this poem.

Submitted: Tuesday, July 22, 2008

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