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Description
I’ve started a collection of stranger’s socks.
Unintentional – they spin into the dryer-ravine,
then get lost in my sweatshirt sleeves
or cling to my t-shirts,
winding up in the sock drawer
with the other singles.

Sometimes I get a pair near to matching
and fold the odd couple in chimeric matrimony,
but most often they are made
for the one week girlfriend
whose shoes remain outside in the hall,
or the man below me
who likes blue lint between his toes
or the guy with the briefcase
who’s midnight tired from his silvering dreads
to his silk-threadbare shin socks.

I always imagine these owners,
these faces seen in passing,
holding this one pairless
(useless) sock they won’t throw out
just in case its partner returns.

I thought of leaving my collection
in the laundry room.
I didn’t,
but I haven’t throw them out yet either.

Description
I’ve started a collection of stranger’s socks.
Unintentional – they spin into the dryer-ravine,
then get lost in my sweatshirt sleeves
or cling to my t-shirts,
winding up in the sock drawer
with the other singles.

Sometimes I get a pair near to matching
and fold the odd couple in chimeric matrimony,
but most often they are made
for the one week girlfriend
whose shoes remain outside in the hall,
or the man below me
who likes blue lint between his toes
or the guy with the briefcase
who’s midnight tired from his silvering dreads
to his silk-threadbare shin socks.

I always imagine these owners,
these faces seen in passing,
holding this one pairless
(useless) sock they won’t throw out
just in case its partner returns.

I thought of leaving my collection
in the laundry room.
I didn’t,
but I haven’t throw them out yet either.