I took a trip to the sock drawer
and let a few old friends talk
about drama I can’t even remember.
A dour grey number looked at me
and did its best to smile with no teeth.
It had fingerprints of hikes and puddles
and midnight train stations
and unfamiliar streets with names
that vaguely ring a bell
stained to its thin spine. I didn’t say anything,
because a fresh pack of unopened
running socks wouldn’t stop
calling me names.

© Carl Burkitt 2022