One Lone Sock

 

One Lone Sock

 

A lone sock,

Last vestige of a temporary resident,

Run off by circumstance,

Maybe a cop,

Or drawn away by an insistent hunger,

For either food,

Fentanyl,

Or faith,

But gone nonetheless,

Leaving behind just enough

To secure their anonymity.

Here beside the highway,

An ill-kept ground:

Walkways inserted by the high-tension towers,

Mown infrequently enough

For the detritus of spent lives to collect.

Other tenants in this park have gone,

Their traces as untelling:

A shirt slowly investing itself into the soil,

A broken comb,

Blankets in whole or in part,

Emptied food containers,

And the invariable broken bottles –

None may be left whole by passing teens.

For teen have been here:

Ghostie, and Taz, and Sniz,

Each announcing themselves in their own color,

Each denigrating the others,

All making a mess of the sidewalks.

If homework was allowed in spray paint,

They might be better served.

Such is the condition of the greenspace near,

A resting place and a bed for some,

A tribal initiation altar for others,

A trash pit for too many,

And appreciated by all too few.

Were it removed,

Would it be missed?

Or would it be remembered

By those we have forgotten?

And though they are spoken of here,

I still cannot name them.

All I know of them

Is one lone sock.

 

Cliff Lake 9/8/2024

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024