I took them off, two of them, as I sat on the side of the bed. I remember
pushing one off with my foot, reaching down to pull the other
from my right foot.
In the morning there was just one on the floor,
alone against the pine boards.
I looked under the bed,
under the dresser,
under the rug.
Today I washed the dark clothes, and hung them with wooden pins
on wire lines to dry in wind and sun.
Hanging without its match it is a red letter accusation,
its toe pointing out my failure to find the missing sock.
I searched again in places
the sock could never have gone all on its own, and yet
Who knows? Who can say
what a sock might do when it’s loose upon the world,
single and no mate to speak caution and care?
It is gone like my missing favorite silver earring,
like the one who gave the earrings as a gift,
like the me who wore the flashing silver in ears hidden
beneath streaming windblown hair,
like the summer the sun shone on those auburn strands,
like the days we thought would never end
and we would never lose who we were then,
resting our red-socked feet against a stony wall.