Left Sock It’s always the left socks. Never the right. Every third Friday of the month, They disappear. I’m left limply holding a polka-dotted and striped mate-less pair, Forcing them into unholy matrimony. But they too are like me, Far too scarred to ever recover from the loss Of their cherished friend. Those left socks have found left sock heaven, I say! A place without lint or stinky feet. A place without the prejudice of those elitist right socks. A better place. A nirvana that can only be achieved by traveling Deep into the recesses of the dryer, Or by escaping my tyrannical grip On the way to the fluff and fold. In mourning of my abandonment, I run. I stomp. I trudge, In anger, For they have left me behind for a cleaner world. Alone, I march forth to Target. (Always in sandals).
16 Pillars of Salt
