Owner Of A Lonely Sock

By Joseph Wood Krutch
My sock has no democracy. It is but a second class citizen. Merely a whore, perhaps, in the great world order. It's mate has abandoned it. The one it was created for is no more, vanished, not wishing to be found. My sock is in mourning, but I show no respect. Society forbids me to show compassion. I fear the ridicule and the threat of ostracism of my fellow man, so I forsake my own ideals. I know it means nothing to you, my sock, but I'm sorry for your loss. What value does my apology have when actions speak louder than words? I've pimped you out to another sock, one that is not, and never will, replace your mate. I attempt to ease my conscience by telling myself that after you've been worn together and washed together a few times, you'll become a pair. But you and I both know you can never be part of another pair. Your sorrow has overwhelmed you and your dream is to get a hole, knowing it's your only escape from your new existence. Cursed society, is it my fault I am forbidden to take pity? Can I be to blame for the actions of your mate? In defeat, you have won, sock. Your sorrow has encased me and you encase my foot.

Back to Issue 5