Lost Socks

by Mark

I was lost
that one sock
stumbled out into the abyss
forgotten. Failures,
burnt-toast smog,
flood a room in
my stomach.

Intestines were fears,
fired with the lust
of lovers licking from
faucets not turned off all
the way. Then she
came
and fit in
perfectly;

the equal
sign, finding all the tumbles
of lint left
by straggling socks, who
crawl through absent passages –
no longer claiming to be
lost.

Mark J Blu

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