Little plastic hangers from new pairs of socks

Glory be to God for petty plastic
hawk-hooked holders of stretch socks—
handheld hairpin turns, Cinderella curlicues
sturdier than styrofoam, more solid than
shrinkwrap. I laud these lonely leftovers,
signs that no malign marketeers
have yet managed to make socks
seniorproof. Nor glitz nor glamor
disturbs their undergirding of the gold-toed
gloom which will launder into
an infinity of swart shades, each unique,
requisitions for a regiment of one
-legged legionnaires. The plastic bones
alone remain unlaved, their color constant:
ice skates for an outsized centipede.

© Esther Greenleaf Mürer