Self Portrait as Laundry

Time for my lost-socks poem, everybody writes one.
—Barry Spacks, “Fresh Laundry”

While looking for the missing green sock
it isn’t hard to imagine that I, too,

am lost somewhere. Slipped, perhaps,
into a slender space, such as between

the white Kenmore washer and dryer.
Only I wouldn’t fit there. More likely

I’d be slipped between a should and
thou shalt not. Or randomly tucked away, as

inside a long shirt sleeve—a dress shirt
that wouldn’t be worn for a long, long

time. I’m always waiting to be found,
it seems. Waiting to be useful and wanting

to be celebrated for nothing more
than just showing up.

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