Raindrops pour down from the gray skies above Drenching and soaking an old tattered glove Lonely it lies there, not whole but in shreds The water drips in and leaks crimson red No owner to claim it, no cold hand to warm Homeless and shabby, alone in the storm Trampled and crushed, ground underfoot Covered with dirt, grime, street slime and soot For weeks it has lain there, for weeks it has sobbed Unwanted, rejected, its tiny heart throbs Wishing for better, an owner to care But nobody stops; the glove in despair Gives up all hope, resigned to its fate And ends its long, tired and heartbreaking wait. The soul is gone; a dead shell remains No more aching, no more pain An empty glove on an empty street Trampled and crushed under ignorant feet.