At least I can say I got something accomplished today.
They don’t mate for life, you know.
My husband wishes they would, insists
some code is imprinted upon them
with his first wearing, pulls them out
of the laundry one by one, inspecting each
for clues about its preferred partner.
I watch him, amused, matching mine
at random—first come, first served—
in a rare display of nonchalance.
No sock widow mourns
the loss of a hole-ridden husband, I tell
myself, but embraces a new life:
a child’s button-eyed playmate
or mother’s helper, un-dusting the crevices.
He would match them as we had been,
create an internet dating profile
for each mate-less sock (likes: slow walks
and slippery floors) and let
the search engine algorithm do the rest.