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Empty glove on the floor.
White latex, not powdered.
Thrown on the floor, inside out.
Left over, on the floor.
Not a trace of it's previous history.
Nothing.

Box cars on the railroad tracks can be heard.
There is a window in the bathroom painted baby blue.
With a thin white linen curtain.
A slight breeze blows in and shifts the curtain from side to side.

The faucet still runs a steady stream.
Trickling through the rusty pipes beneath the porcelain.
Twisting and turning until it enters the tiled floor.
My mind tracks back and listens to the box cars once more.

Echoes of my mother calling my name are bounced against these walls.
A recently extinguished cigarette sits on the tub basin.
The tub is filled with various plastic containers.
Different sizes, different colours, different weights.
Nothing leads to the used empty latex glove thrown on the floor.

The radio in the bedroom plays a filthy static.
My ears stall and my eyes twitch.
The stale smell in the room overwhelms me as I leave the bathroom.
The bedspread is perfectly and evenly placed upon the bed.
It has a mustard shade and a starch feel, quite uncomfortable.
Not inviting.

The opera singer is still practicing her voice in the room next door.
An enchanting beautiful sound seeping through the walls.
Penetrating my movements and my heart.
I still hear the box cars roll down the track.

No hair to be found.
Not a trace of spit.
A single stain.
Not blood, not semen, not urine.
Loving death can't be this easy.
But I've found the owner.
The owner of that empty used discarded white latex glove on the floor.


 2004 David Greg Harth
04.07.30.16:53:00@205Hudson10013NYC