The Sock
It occurred by carelessness and mere happenstance.
If I could move, I would stand and perform a victory dance.
Dropped behind the washing machine, sliding down the back.
I am a solitary sock and my color is black.
I lost my partner a few months ago,
paired with another, in the drawer to be stowed.
We didn't get along, entwined and rolled together.
He smelt like dirty feet, especially in hot weather.
I caught glimpses of my old mate, while hanging on the line.
Called out greetings to each other, he seems to be doing fine.
I noticed a small hole, frayed across his tip.
He said the left toe nail was badly in need of a clip.
I've been stuck behind the machine, all covered in dust.
At first happy with my freedom, now leaving is a must.
I know in time I will be found, like Roger, the blue.
He told me about it once when we were doubled in a shoe.
We socks are always blamed for going missing in the wash.
But human carelessness is usually the cause of our loss.
One more thing about us socks, and this is a fact.
We don't like to be folded and rolled, we like to lie flat.
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