There is a glove on the passenger seat of my car.
Squashed flat in sinister gesture, in perpetuity pointedly alone.
YOU did this to me. It reproaches at the start of every journey.
Rendered me redundant. He sulks like a black ink splat.
Although I regret the whereabouts of the treacherous dexter;
absent about sleeve,
I cannot bring myself to dispose of him.
I feel sure the instant I do,
the universe will regurgitate his mate.
Perhaps I should attempt to fox the universe
by stuffing him out of sight into the glove compartment.
1956 Plymouth Belvedere. Taxi-ride Istanbul c.2001