Where do all the fucking socks go?

After Lou Mach

You sit and think about how table legs have no feet.
You think about the mouth of a washing machine,
why our arms are not called branches,
why leaves on trees are not hairs.
You think about the life of a tea cup handle
and how few little fingers it’s been hugged by.
You think about whether or not
the blue you see is the blue I see
and whether or not eggs have feelings.
You think about it all and call it
The mysteries of life because you’re brave like that,
brave enough to think until your head
is a sock drawer eating everything it sees.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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