8 of 30, 2016

The Joy of Love

I bought a tremendous bag of socks,
black and general, heavy with hope
of trying less. The ease in first
mornings, pulling any two, certain
as a grandmother making her bread.
Then they were worn. Two calves
napped to velvet retrieving and retrieving
the only ball from the prickers. A pair
of soles gone Texas-orange from chlorite
scrubbed where a son was flu-sick. A crease
forever, dried at right angles on business
hotel radiator. And true, the spectral
betrayal of laundry, the certain orphans
to wear. I sort now, as I must, these same
things wed and widowed by their stories.

from a prompt by Allie Perry