Walking Socks

Holes in socks
Speak of walks.

Wrapped in leather,
Tied up tight.
Perspirations staining fright
And the stink.

Holes on soles,
Or heal,
Or toes,
Tell a tale of travelers’ woes.

A mile farther than planned.
Foot sore still,
Bend to paths commands

Pull them off at end of day.
Wash?
Or simply throw away?

One inside the others fold.
Wadded,
Oder controlled.

Dumped upon the bed at last.
Remnants of times now past.

Crusted with old sweat.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

Just a bit of fun.


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