The Insides of a Glove

[.Kafka]

The Insides of A Glove

At quarter to eight
dinner is preposterously late
and the table cold.
Her hands are like squeamish doves,
they need not speak.

At nine
the food is served just fine,
in paper plates and cups
plain and lustreless.

At ten I remove a ball point pen
from a pocket and turn it around.

At eleven,
she remembers seven
and frowns in that elegant gown;
earlier at walk the wind lost her glove,
now, as we try and talk, memories pull us down.

At twelve, but never mind
she knows,
my love has been trampled in
falling snow.

[PrinceMyshkin]

It's a mysterious poem. I can't claim to be able to decipher it but as narrative it certainly pulled me along, and the title was most intriguing.