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.