On the subway I find a pair of purple gloves.
The soiled fingers hold fingerprints; the seams split
from the plastic face like a family quarrel.
At the movies I found a wristwatch,
another in the street, band broken, ticking imperturbable
timex time; the one in the movies sat intact. Someone
took it off because it chafed, or because a ruined
lover gave the gift.
Twice I "lost" my wallet on the street. I mean tossed
from the back of the bike my identity to whomever
gaining a second chance, like a Christmas gift,
found those money-cases bulky with cash,
with options to use or not MasterCard,
library card, health-care card; assume my identity,
retrieve my suit from the cleaners and scan
my worksheet in a pair of new blue contact lenses.
It brings us close, the handed‑off baton, tickets
for the final game, umbrella, purse, purchases,
wallets, canes, necklaces, children of many
marriages with unusual uncles and aunts. Lose your life
on the subway; when the Jesus freak shouts
the burden returns in another color, another winding cloth;
or comes washable, reclaimable, no name attached, a wondrous
newborn babe armed to signal like a digital chime
timely needs and untimely losses,
and how we find again each other.