RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—Oct 8

Della Rowland

Odd Socks

Your shirts fit you loosely,
your pants but by your belt.
You pull off your boots 
and even your socks
at every chance you get.
Your mouth never smells
of liquor you’ve drunk
or smoke from your cigarettes.
Nor your body of soap
or of yesterday’s clothes,
nor your hair of shampoo.

You elude everything.
Not even your musk clings to you.
When you leave, you take
all your evidence,
like so many socks you’ve stepped out of,
shaped to your foot
but empty.

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