Day 6: Work Gloves

My father's gloves were worn in with grease,
Tan pig skin blackened with work on the farm
Their certain smell of fresh cut alfalfa, acrid
With sweat and oil and petroleum distillates
There was a developing hole in the crotch of
Leather between the thumb and the index finger
From grabbing bales by the twine and flinging
Them hard to the cows who waited impatiently
At trough, bellowing and slapping their necks
Against the broad haunches of their sisters to
Gain the best stall, and maybe get a pat on the
Head from my father's gloved hand, blackened
By work

After my father died, all those years ago, I put on
His gloves. They had stiffened with time passed
And the sweet smell of hay had long since faded
But the leather was still black with his work
The developing hole still worn in the webbing
My hands were loose in the shell of his hands
So much smaller, like a child's hands cupped in his
Father's