My sock is growing.
Not with my feet
(my feet haven’t grown in a while),
not with wear, and
certainly not with mold.
It’s bursting at its own seam.
The growth
—like a teddy’s love-worn insides—
surges behind the bars of errant stitches
before ripping white thread from white thread
as it reaches for the floor, desperate
to savor the dust and foot sweat and gum,
to cling to the mildewed carpet,
perhaps to greet shoe soles that will leave it behind
two steps later.
I covered it once
with blue masking tape,
hoping to stifle the unseemly bulge.
When I ripped the tape off days later,
quick like a band-aid,
the growth lay flat, smothered in dirt,
but still grappling for the ground.
Maybe I should crawl along the floor
for a few days,
figure out what’s so great down there
that my sock fibers labor to reach it.
Nothing tugs my organs from my chest anymore,
so it must be more inspiring than the weekend.
