Tube Socks


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.


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.


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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