Baseball Gloves

On a desk lie thirteen baseball gloves,
Each is leather and all are worn.
How many hands have been thrust into each?
How many questing hands?
What did the hands dream of inside the mitts?
Baseball in sun, baseball in rain.
Calloused hands with bones and dreams
That flew or broke in floating streams.
In each glove their memory might linger.
In each scuff, each fingerhole, were ideas.
Questing fingers and dreaming bones of calloused palms.
Sun or rain fingers different or the same.
Leather is skin that feels each break;
The worn gloves now give the desk their weight.