Socks

Socks

after Jim Simmerman’s Moon go away, I don’t love you no more

Hope struggles to get dressed in the morning.
Really, it’s just the socks it can’t handle.
I guess it wants to kick at the floor
and feel the bamboo tiling soak its feet
unadulterated.

In reality, everyone loathes clothes.
Kind of like how Sandy Clauson
hated to wear gloves when he crushed beetles
down by Rock Gardens,
across from the wishing well
that had run dry years before.

Perhaps that’s why Hope rarely leaves
the house- because of Sandy
Clauson, all the Sandy Clausons,
who pitch pinched mandibles
down an empty well,

while Hope just sits there
on the bed, its socks
lying next to it,
picking out all the splinters
from irritated feet.

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