Just a

Dumb, gray polka-dot sock–

Alone, without a match.

Unraveled and dirty,

I sit, unworn.



Under a pile of socks.

They are pairs.

They are matches.

But not me.

Until someone takes me out of

My comfort zone.

Out of the bin,

Out of the box.

I’m lost afraid.

But nothing is different, really.

I am still alone.

But then

I am thrown into a bin of Towels and clothes.

I feel even more unwanted

If that’s possible.


I’m tossed onto a table.

Invisible hands sort everything out.

Shirts go with shirts;

Pants with pants;

Dresses with dresses.

I am tossed to and fro,

Thrown about.


I see my match.

It’s a

Dumb, gray polka-dot sock–

Just like me.

We are folded together and

Returned to out bin.





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