WordsOut poems by
The place where socks go
There's a place where socks go
when the
washing is done,
when the driers have dried
when it's past eight o'clock
and
there's no one about
and the launderette's locked—
then
the odd socks come out.
There is hosiery here
of
each pattern and hue,
some plain, striped or spotted,
some
black, red or blue,
to exactly the shape
in
airports in
some were hideous presents
but in all their variety
to the place where socks go
they
will not go pre-paired.
Then the odd socks remaining
are
placed in the chest
and new socks come at Christmas
and
birthdays bring more
and the old lie, alone,
And maybe, one evening
when
memory is low,
they too slip away
and in silent reunion,
they join in the dance
the letters unanswered,
the
calls not returned,
the promises broken,
the lost afternoons,
the best of intentions,
and the friends not kept up
and the
others let down—
in the ragbag of conscience
they
waltz sadly round,
beyond the respite
no amount of detergent
can now
get them clean
till that
day when all laundry
is
washed white as snow,
and everyone's tumbled
and soft
soap must go,
when nothing is hidden
but all
is revealed
and socks shall be holy
and
souls shall be healed.
The first version was written in a
launderette in Stamford Hill,