Demolition Gloves
Two months in and this shit is all just a rinse cycle. These demolition gloves got more holes than a whorish wedge of swiss cheese with “rent me” branded on it. Twenty five a pop, those year round fives could have gone towards keeping the local Radio Shack from turning into another Jewelry Shop. Sandwiched between a dollar store and two laundromats, that’s a best case scenario for these people. The only time solid gold walks in there is when the dry cleaner walks in to get the battery in his watch replaced. The copper must have came from the walls and the nickels are from laundry day, you’d get a better deal on a ring from the gumball machine in the dollar store. We need more flying mini helicopters in the world and less repurposed brass door knobs. The fingers went first on the gloves like a victim to a Serial Killer who’s origin story comes from getting pointed and laughed at. I’m no Billy Idol, give me back my fingers. I could careless for the smartphone fingertip feature, it never works. If it did, your fat fingers from the gloves would make your phone crash by opening the ebay app while backing up smut. The other day I had to use electrical tape to try to patch up the holes, it was the closes i’ve been to having a fork for a hand. If I had a fork for hand then it would have a dinner or a fish fork, not no pussy oyster fork. Maybe one with three prongs instead of four, so I shove a spoon between them when I need it. I could probably use the other normal hand to use a spoon but how else am I going to prove that you can eat soup with a fork. I’d honestly prefer a trash picker for a hand instead of a fork, the pin version and not the crab hand grabber one. If that ever were to happen, i’d dedicate the rest of my life picking up trash from the side of the road without eating. Fence away the team of community service servants when they choose my route for the day. I’m not too far from that now, just still prefer to eat and have hands with fucked up demolition gloves. You can’t fault the gloves too hard, a pair of gloves could be made from the skin of the hardest working man and it wouldn’t be on first name basis with the washer for long. The velcro on the wrist straps is frayed away, hanging off my arm like some bubble wrap. I glue the wounds shut till its time to go to the hut. I could go demolition gloveless but I got this stuff to write and a hammer fist full of nubs won’t sit well with cooperate. Sometimes these suits have something I want, going in for a handshake with one of them might spook them into relapsing into their mini bar that resides in the filing cabinet. Side by side, man and machine sees through the building with the purpose of one day seeing the land underneath. The man is no machine when it’s tires tore up and the machine ain’t no man when it can’t drive itself to work on its own.