Brown Sock, Blue Sock: A Story of Socks and Violence.

Brown Sock, Blue Sock:
A Story of Socks and Violence.

It happened again,
my laundry lessened
by two socks, one black
one white.
 

I am plagued by a basket
of divorced dress socks
and single parent sweats.
 

Not wearing single socks
I rarely wash them,
never giving them a chance
to run away,
to find their lost mates.
Perhaps they did not
run off but fell victim
to a kidnapper, snaring
them from washer or dryer,
pressing his sweaty body
against their cotton soft flesh
while I prepared yet another
load of innocent clothes.
 

At night, I sometimes hear
a whimpering from the basement.
It may be the lost socks, shaking
in fear as a burly boot
with tattered laces and a tattoo
reading "smell me,"
watches over them,
playing solitaire
with a lost deck of my cards.
 
I hope one night one of them,
the tube sock, or my footy,
(it is smaller and can move faster)
will sneak away when the boot
has drunk itself into a stupor,
smelling of booze and stinky feet.
 

I will be torn from sleep
by the sound of that panting
footy, wrapped in bandoliers
covered in dust, as it calls
to me, telling me to run
back fighting as Zapata.
I will trace its trail of notched
woodwork and dropped lint,
my face camouflaged
my body wrapped in black.
I will liberate my companions,
strapping down the boot
with duct tape, then caging it
in a laundry basket.
 

Until then, my shocked petite socks
mourn in my drawer, unable to let
me wear them. Only a blue striped
sweat and a brown one
are over the trauma
and willingly go out together in public.
I remain the pillar of strength,
keeping our group together.
 

I have strung
a clothesline, hanging
my socks to dry, and yet
I am hopeful and wait,
thinking my next load
might be the one
when I will open the dryer door,
and find a ransom note taped inside.
 
Clue in hand,
I will call the FBI
with my lead.
I will wear a wire-tap
as I go to the drop point
with my bag full of unmarked
non-sequential tens and twenties.
In a foggy garage, full of other
lost things, I will be reunited
with my socks. In their excitement
they will fight to be the first
to go back on my feet.
 

Until then I remain fearful,
dreading the use of
labor saving machines.
This is only the beginning:
next my defenseless undershirts
will go one by one.
 

I will soon be naked
in a world where clothes
(socks included) make
the man.  
 

^^©Asher

 
 
1
 
2