Tube Socks

Arrayed beside the new pack
you're nice.  Pink from the day I tossed you in
with the red hoodie I've been meaning to return
to that lovely fellow, Justin.
Thread bare, some of you, when I forgot to clip
my fingernails and pulled up to my heel
a tiny bit too hard and your ankle opened
with a "yowch!"  Floppy necked from
days behind the wheel, sweating, sweating, sweating,
never the same after I peeled you away
from my brown skin turned gray
from a sauna boot.
Black half sideways stripes from the time
my bicycle chain locked and my shoe
tangled in the toe cage and my foot
sprung free of the laces only to catch in
black greased chain links and slowly tip over
unable to get off the finicky road machine.
Timber!
A new pack.  Is there anything nicer?
The thick threads not yet beaten flat.
The odor of odorlessness.
Empty odometers, the lot of you.
Excitement ripping the package open hurling
them every which way.
First the left foot.  Then the right.

Well there is something nicer.

How about that first stroke of a new deoderant?

Ooooooooh, that is a good one.

To the general store!