Ode to the Lost Sock

Oh, cruel and fickle fates of laundry day,
why dost thou steal what is rightfully mine?
A sock, a humble, faithful sock—
vanished into the void, never to return.

One moment, it danced in soapy delight,
whirling with giddy joy in the drum,
its cotton heart warm with the promise
of reunion with its twin—
a partnership, a pair, a destiny woven in thread!

And yet!—

Oh, the betrayal—
as I reach into the machine’s gaping maw,
only one emerges, cold and alone.

Where, pray tell, is the other?
Has it been summoned to some higher purpose?
Swept into a parallel dimension,
where single socks live free of their twin’s embrace?
Or does it linger, mocking me from the shadows,
clinging stubbornly to the inside of a trouser leg,
awaiting the perfect moment to reveal itself—
perhaps in public, mid-stride, mid-sentence,
so I might suffer yet another indignity?

I search, I plead, I overturn baskets,
delve into the abyss behind the radiator,
even interrogate the dog—
but the sock is gone, lost to the annals of domestic tragedy.

Farewell, dear friend.
May you find warmth, wherever you roam.

And as for your twin, left behind,
destined to be a dust rag or puppet…
well, I suppose I’ll just have to buy another pair.

And tempt once more the fickle fates

With another tantalizing pair.