A solitary sock hung on the laundry basket.
It felt no pain. It felt no itching.
It did not plot a run across the house to the dresser.
It was new out of the packing.
It was dry from its inaugural washing.
It had never felt toes.
The wool that formed it was multi-colored.
The thickness of its weave suggested winter.
The length of its tube suggested a long foot.
Though it was half of a Christmas present
it was first washed a day after
the feast of the Epiphany.
The sock was not yet lonely separated from its mate.
The sock observed a bucket of rags.
It was unfazed by the steady drip of the utility sink faucet.
Its mate sat atop a dresser in the bedroom.
It thought about the color melancholy.
It wondered why socks did not have names.
It watched snow fall outside the window.
The security lights tripped on.
It lay atop four loose pennies and a nickel.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney