For who or what is everyday the same,
As it is for my socks?

They lie in the dark of my drawer forgotten,
They don’t think much, be they wooly or cotton.
In protecting others from the stink of what’s rotten,
And guarding myself from the cold of the floor,
I steal them from their resting place, in the dark of my drawer.

I slip their formlessness over my stinkers,
The holes in the big toes look like blinkers,
They shape to my balls, my arch and my heel,
Around my ankles, It’s all they feel.
And I peddle the room all dusty with flowers,
Never a protest from the dirty little cowards.
It’s never long before I suffocate the suckers,
In the confines of boots, loafers or runners.

And the whole day round they are kept hiding,
Scratched by my toenails,
Sweating and writhing.
They are with me even now but in nothing they share.
They are my socks, they don’t match, and I don’t much care.

They never know what time it is,
Not even the day.
They feel only my feet until I toss them away.

For who or what is everyday the same?
It is for my socks and so it remains.

”