Survivors of Laundry Wash

Years after he left, his sock pile
still towers from my white dresser,
its weight has corroded
the varnish to a scratched cream.

I am talking about the odd ones:
lonely hearts who were rejected
even by marriage agencies,
widows trapped in one-night affairs,
turtledoves with fractured wings.

Sometimes at night
the moon shoulders past
the curtains to provide survivors
their floodlight of dating game.

I swear singles have voices.
Rough cotton always whistles
at the sleek body of microfiber
Often I hear them discuss length
and size in such masculine tones.

Lately, I slip on mismatches
under the camouflage of jeans,
scout streets for possible
pairing with other feet.

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