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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Free

No one saw me
head to the ground,
feet to the sky,
pretending to fly.
It would have made you cry
hilarity.

A grown woman such as me
behaving as if three.
But just maybe,
you would have joined
the jocularity.
Felt free
to again be three.

Sometimes I take myself too seriously. This is just self reminder that it’s okay, and good to be ridiculously sometimes. Yes, the cover image is of my actual feet. I thought it was cute.

©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef

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