My Socks Were White Once
My socks were white once, I recall;
when purchased at the local mall
they smelled of linen, clean and sweet,
untouched by human hands or feet.
But I have dragged them through the grime,
the grass, the grit, the sands of time.
And all of their unsightly stains
remind me that the road remains,
and sing of all life has to teach
in spite of those who favor bleach.
In fashion stores upon the racks
hang clothes of countless blues and blacks;
it’s tough to match your navy skirt,
your Prussian slacks, your onyx shirt.
All the shades of blacks and blues
can feel like one big fabric bruise,
and one snafu on laundry day
makes ebony look charcoal gray.
Confused by all the blues and blacks?
Wear polka dots and just relax.