Lonely white sock

I have a lonely white sock

And it’s torn,

The ankle bone peeking out

a small round hole,

An odd reminder of pairs that

once matched,

Hollow batches of past clothes

we’ve grown out of,

Defiant of its final journey to the bin,

It survives, emotionally attached.

I have a pair of grey trousers,

one of two hems is ripped,

Bedtime casualty of a clumsy regret.

It once had trendy new looks,

although now seemingly by waves of years

fret,

Overused, tired, worn-out,

But it still does what’s required of it best,

Needs than most trousers

I haven’t tried on

will ne’er surely met.

Comfortable, that is.

In the morning rush

I try not to pair one torn sock to a ripped hem,

Unsuccessful attempt

The spectacle of it,

as I cross my legs on my daily commute,

On the passenger seat,

Humours the coffee drinking, chin masked lady

that sits opposite me.

I don’t seem to be capable to get rid of most things

Nor I seem to be able to repair what could,

If put back together,

Be mended to new service and means,

But, uncaring of my lapses and slips,

Those broken parts of mine seem to have

a most wilful disposition and wit

In finding their way to their suitable fit

So to make it all the more evident

That there’s something unsettling off

With the way I pair what it was

with what it could actually be.