I’ve always wondered
The state
Of a sock
Left helpless on the side of the road.
Who left it there
And how
Could they
Continue without a sock on their foot?
Was it an accidental orphan
Left over
Fallen down
From a pile of unconscious laundry?
And there goes a Jeep
Smashing it
Blacking it
Sending the sock headlong to the curb.
Behold, this sad sorry sock
Violated
Ill-fated
To be abused so carelessly.
I step towards the limp rag
Compassionate
Reaching out
To liberate its perilous position.
“Retract your hand at once,
Knave!”
Spat out
The sock, recoiling from outstretched palm.
“What is your entitlement
To think
To look
Down upon my chosen situation?
I sneer at your pity
At caring
At heart
Of which I have no particular use.
Has a sock not the right
To live
To endure
In a situation it deems beneficial?
You keep to yours
And I
In wisdom
Will uphold my own set of tru-“
The defensive sock was silenced
Mid-sentence
Without warning
As a Corvette sped over its threads
And before my very eyes
An abrupt
Unraveling
Caught between wheel and pavement.
But was it any fault
Of the driver
Of my own
If the sock had ignored that fate?
Was the sock not wrong
In its choice
If the outcome
Led finitely to this particular moment?
I cannot think to answer
Such questions
And yet
I feel as though I should have done more.
After all, in reality,
A sock
Cannot walk
Without a foot to make it whole.
But still this goes to show
How difficult
How impossible
To understand the feelings of a sock without a foot.
Morning's Early Dark 