The Bliss of Old Socks

By Vincent R. Pozon

I toss brand new socks back and rifle
through drawers for solace and kindness
The old ones surrender and smile at me

the garters have given up, they are
indolent around the ankles while
flesh peeps through threadbare cloth at the heels

Neckties hang in the order they were
hung long ago, ay, that was another lifetime
the days when socks rode high and denting skin

I do not put on socks but comfort
do I mind if people see my bare legs?
I will cross them, pop one ankle on a knee

I prefer they see my contentment
the bliss in failing socks, an old mottled jacket
a life prostrate and languid at the edges.