My famous black socks

Michael Dickel

At three in the morning
I hand wash my socks,
my bladder emptied,
the toilet flushed.
These pressure socks
help stop the pain
and swelling from
my varicose veins.

I realize the water
will never run clear,
black dye running
away from the
responsibility,
I assume. And
I think, this poem
is not very sexy.

For that, I should
lay next to my wife,
who sleeps in
the next room as
I wring the socks.
We should share
a cigarette. You
know, how the
movies used
to show sex.

Except we don’t
smoke. And we’ve
spent the day
caring for her
mother with cancer
and a broken arm.

I caught up on a bit
of work tonight,
wrote to a couple
of friends, edited
something, sent
a poem or two
to editors who
know or don’t
know me.

Well,
my socks will be
clean. And, I think,
that’s not so bad.

© 2017, Michael Dickel

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