Tube Socks

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Moldy tennis balls firmly affixed to the feet

Of his walker, he slithered, unseen.

Then each locker, of socks, did he feebly deplete,

As he loosened his worn gaberdine.

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Confirming the corridor’s coast to be clear,

He inhaled deeply into the pile,

Down his pants, he then made a stray sock disappear,

And relieved himself into the argyle.

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Shuddering, he clutched at his musty caché,

Gnarled fingers caressing each hem,

Drawing, then, one last breath of stale cotton so grey,

Did he, one by one, gently replaced them.

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