The socks fall into a neat little pile,
matching in simple, recumbent couplings.
There are only two black. All the socks
have faded; aged in the wash:
The blacks apart from the others.
Two washes, two shades lighter.
One less faded black sock; lost in the wash.
The remaining sock sits apart, aged away,
retardant to a new match, Like a lover,
widowed from battle. But it's no battle;
only a dryer.
The socks are picked at bedtime, fumbling
hands in the basket, drowsy eyes are closed.
The black sock slips
on one foot, just as the blue
sock does the other.
Mismatched, but matched. The black sock,
no longer lonely, hidden in the corner
of the sock drawer, knows
it is not the blue sock's match. Knows
that another blue sock is waiting
in the cold basket, alone.
Still, dreaming of its own
lost match, it can pretend
that it is loved.