Holes are an emergent property of socks—
Their destiny, dharma, and final cause
To chafe against my boot in my stead;
To absorb the flints of my exertion
As I travel jagged Elysian paths
Or shim sham on urban night-lit landscapes.
Consider
The tender lapsed coherence of threads—
Where some socks are workhorses, undistinguished and tawn
Some flaunt accessories and festoons
I hold each hose taut while posing at my bedside.
I think back to where they have clung to me
— Soft travelers so sudden roughly gouged —
On their journey into the oval white occulus
That will bring them at last to the donation bin…
Before I tug the supply chain that stretches the world for their replacements
And cut my toenails
Andy Oram
January 18, 2024