All my socks are obstinate,
yet nowhere close to opulent.
They flee from me at every chance,
for what I’ve coined the “Scatter Dance.”
It’s been that way for many years,
and has – at times – caused “Socking Tears.”
They just can’t seem to get along,
with their mates where they belong.
It starts when pulled out from the drawer,
to match them up becomes a chore.
It’s like they just had traded places,
deep within the darkened spaces.
That’s only if they don’t conspire,
when I took them from the dryer.
Half the time some disappear,
to get my Goat and that is clear.
Many times they turn up later,
acting like an agitator,
In the sheets and underwear,
wedged in pants – behind the chair.
I guess I might accept defeat,
and walk around in my bare feet,
then put my ire at last at ease,
by turning them into Sock Monkeys.