O Lonely Sock Upon The Floor

O lonely sock upon the floor,
Seek you the sacred coves
That other socks of mine have sought,
Escaping, then, in droves?

I see you setting out, this hour,
To find those silver gates,
And join the other mismatched soles
Who no longer have mates.

So where, tomorrow, you will be
There’s none can truly say —
For many-a-stocking citizen
Becomes an émigré.

The day you find your freedom, we
Will mark what you achieved,
And never sweat you any more.
So you should feel relieved.

O lonely sock upon the floor,
We two are weaved the same:
We both are hanging by a thread,
And have life’s dryer to blame,

Which spins us and confuses us,
And deals us tears and knocks —
For though it’s just a cycle,
It is jarring, and

It socks

You Didn’t Ask

You gave because you give. You didn’t ask.
For byzantine as hearts must often be,
For you, there’s rhythm, and there’s melody,
And morning-after sun in which to bask,
And rudiments of lessons that we teach,
When we find learning there, within our reach.

But who am I, that you should favor me?
I sometimes think you chose in too much haste,
But then, the outline of your form is traced
By fingers touching skin-rich piquancy,
And light itself backs off from pride of place
Belonging to the wonder on your face.

  You didn’t ask, because superfluous
  Are words beyond which, there is here, and us.