I am an odd sock

with a partner in the wash, clean

and crisp when tumbled,

whilst I remain

unseen, possibly discarded

at the bottom of the laundry basket,

never quite being the one

to feel the detergent wash through

every fibre and rub shoulders

with the gods of tie-dye illusion.

 

I am an odd sock,

and where my partner smells so sweet

in the drawers I just remain dirty, tossed

hopefully into the bin

but always gathering dust

behind the fridge where I fall,

ungainly and unbalanced,

neither striped or funky, cartoon

strip hero, golfer’s essential;

plain and without holes.

 

I am an odd sock,

forever fighting against losing the thread,

of coming to terms with the daunting

prospect of unravelling, of the toe

kicking the end out me…

should I ever make it into the machine

rather than being left

in the great unwashed and neglected.

I am an odd sock

that lays in the bottom of the laundry bin.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016