Socks
Conceived of wool and birthed Siamese
In grand factories by hands unheard.
My socks move into separate drawers
Like orphaned siblings.
Soon
Each of my six pairs are strangers
that move in perfect lockstep
inside loafers in offices, brogues in churches and Chucks in clubs.
Then—
For nights’ sakes, on the floor;
Rolled rainbows of imperfect donuts.
Who thinks of unmatched socks
while he sucks in his gut to be a body stacked atop another,
to love?
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