Lost socks.

A poem by Todd Williams:

I wear my dead father’s socks.
They do not guide my steps
like quiet and steady words,
but they comfort my feet
when at rest and when I walk.

They are not new socks, 
ones that barely stretch around 
thickening calves and ankles
and leave deep impressions that fade
only when I sleep at night.

And they are not weathered socks
that give in to gravity and tear 
with just a tug, their holes
growing after every mile walked
until my toes touch the Earth.

They are my socks now,
filling the empty space 
in an unkempt and chaotic drawer,
pairs and orphans alike,
fumbling for a place in the here and now,

as if they know that one day,
they, too, will be lost in between
the desert and the ocean,
or will disappear into the deep recesses
of a dark and dusty laundry room.

Todd Williams is a former journalist from South Dakota who now works in the Middle East. He writes poetry in his free time.

Photo credit: Jonathan Taylor

Ian Miller

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