The Left Hand’s Weight

I slip on the faded glove—

leather cracked, cuff torn like an old promise.

The left hand, all loose seams and slack,

forgotten fingers bent like they’re half-asleep.

It’s not the one I reach with,

not the hand that writes or waves goodbye.

It’s the one that holds the bag when I’m in a rush,

that sometimes drops the keys, clinks empty bottles.

Today it caught itself—a wobble, a catch—

a reminder of weight not carried,

or carried badly,

a side note in the day’s song.