The Mystery of Missing Socks

There were black holes in the house,
minuscule moths that suctioned socks.
Or else, I thought, a conspiracy
by vacuum cleaners imprisoned
inside spidery closets. Once I caught
the Hoover, dissected its papered sack
in search of missing pairs.

The washer was a suspect as well.
Every stainless round it made breathed
stealthiness. Some unspoken centrifugal
force dried couples into mismatches.

Yesterday I eavesdropped on his call.
Business again, darling. I'll take it
in the study.
He thought he could
go on closing double doors on me.

His secretary, Miss Marple, solved
the mystery. In hissed tones, she asked
for orders on how to treat the singles
left in her flat. Her mother was coming
over the weekend and knew about married men.
This Sunday I have a good mind to retrieve
old socks, offer my husband as ransom.

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