Gutting the Gloves
By Don Russ

Only it isn't gutting,
such innards once some other's
comfy outerwear.

Now however
they're mine, I’ve found them at last:
back behind the socks,

my J. C. Penney’s
peeled-off paws, the fur gone in
beginning to come undone.

Tufts of bunny. Feathers, scales.
Then something like shrunken udders
comes out whole. 

Ach! I go now, fisting
leather, ready for cold Polands
of the lonely human self.

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