INFIDELS (Fourth draft)
Socks. In his hand, a bag of socks. Yes, mateless.
Yes. Gray wool work sock, gold-toed dress sock,
sport sock and more. Where did their mates disappear to?
Under the bed in puffs of dust? Zip
Snug under the washer’s agitator spindle? No
Stuck to the roof of the dryer? You wish.
Ah! Sandwiched between the clean, folded T-shirts? No no.
Where oh where are these mates? Don’t they hear
The whimpering and whining of their sole mates?
For whatever reason, want of gartered lace, or a slower
Or faster pace; maybe a diamond argyle partner or
A near spandex stretcher; red low-cut? Knee sock?
Whatever. They’re gone. Run, walk, trot, lope-eloped,
They are surely unfaithful mates. The height of
Hosiery infidelity. A romance of socks. Yikes. The
Jury is in. Flagrante in Delixio. Infidelity! Infidels!
Then– what to do with mateless mates? The garbage can?
He can almost hear them weeping. “I’m so alone.”
So — eyes closed, he pulled out socks two by two,
Folded them together, mated for life. Ah! Fidelity.