Odd socks

You never cared for pairing the socks you wore.

Disorganised as I am, I would not wear odd socks.

Most of the ones I own lie forgotten in the drawer,

the result of the hungry sprite that lives

in the mechanical cave in the utility room,

but I have a selection you gave me

from the colourfully stitched foot-shaped

renderings of famous paintings

you bought online that I was always intending

to wear at some later time.

It feels odd to wear them

now that we have parted ways

(an equivocal euphemism, that)

I wish I had worn them

when we were paired

I felt more useful coupled,

and more cheerful.

Does that mean

we never should have parted company?

Socks get unpaired due to neglect

or a dislike of the act of pairing.

Lying belly-down on the unmade bed

we used to share

where I cowered in daft anticipation

of your nocturnal utterances

I feel lonely and bereft.

I wonder should I wear one

to our tentative coffee meeting?

It would feel like a stunt.

I can’t trick you back to me

but perhaps we can be friends.

If by convention

we did not pair socks

but allowed them to couple

at uncontrived liberty

as the feeling took you,

we would not expect

to see the pairs always together

as identical, mirrored compliments

to each other

but contrasting fellows

that met more regularly

for being harmonious

in their dissonance,

celebrating each other’s individuality

and how they resonate

with each other

and we would not mourn

the cyclical separation

from bedroom floor

to drawer.

I wonder if among

your odd socks

you have favourites

you keep returning to?

Is it too much to wonder

if in time you could return to me?

Or walk with me a while?

Is it too much

to build a new philosophy of love

around attitudes to

garments meant for feet?

Is there any warmth

in these words

or any elasticity?

Does their design offend you?