My sock drawer
Isn’t so important
As I think
Soon won’t matter
What will happen—
emptied forever
or refilled in the name
of another—
I don’t know
Except to be certain
The day will come
When my sock drawer is opened
In permanent absence of me
And whoever has done so
Will express something or other
When looking down upon
The pieces of cloth
That once adorned my feet
I wonder what they’ll think
Whether eyes brimming with love
Will be blinded by tears
Or more likely
Will ones of indifference
Judge—for they won’t
be able to help it somehow—
In favour or against
Think stylish or stingy
Maybe even poverty stricken
Or someone who just didn’t care
I wonder what they will see
During the last ever look
Into my sock drawer
Before its contents are cast
Into the dark depths of a black bin liner
Or the whole piece of furniture
Stuck on top of a bonfire
I imagine these possibilities
While remembering
The next time grabbing a pair
Could be the last time of mine too

With thanks to D. D. Buck^ for use of the header image (licensing).

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