Hands on stone

At the gallery’s glove exhibition
a young man freezes, his eyes
cold on the granite table, his mother’s
hands folded in the same cold way
they would lie on the coach —
                                    withholding,
They played bridge, the piano, tennis
but never with his hair. They held
cups of tea and wine and cigars
but not once his hands, his face.
They wouldn’t teach him to ride a bike,
catch a fish; never waved goodbye
                               at school or graduation.
And here they are, he and his mother
at his glove exhibition —
she’s nowhere to be seen.