Herding Socks

I've given up on socks. The washer

eats them for its lunch. The dryer melts

them down for its own mysterious

purposes, welding art behind the lint

trap, strange alchemies that only dryers

understand. What few I am able to rescue

like a bag of puppies tossed to the road

running past a likely home, I struggle

to match. Litter mates, twins from birth,

but beyond the obvious argyles, stripes,

and patterns, I'm at a loss with the blues

and blacks. They wait patiently in baskets

littered about the house for desperation

to pull near matches for a walkabout

under dark pants. On their good days,

the cats upend their lairs and drag

them on trips only socks can appreciate.

(For Tweetspeak Poetry's laundry giveaway)