I was looking through, everything I knew,
To find a few, of the forsaken ones.
Lost I say, lost again,
In the car, in the den.
Behind a book, under a bed,
Beside a pillow, under a head.
In a bag with mitts and bats,
Inside pant legs, Inside hats.
What a collection I have found,
Heavy and dark where dirt was ground.
Inside, outside, right side out,
Two of a kind, I have a doubt.
In a tub with soap and bleach,
All I could find, all I could reach.
In a basket clean and dry,
“Far too many”, I say with a sigh.
A match here, a match there,
Hers and his, matched with care.
But, alas, there are a few,
Gray with dirt, holes clean through.
Out they go, unceremoniously dumped,
Those that are left, in a basket lumped.
Hoping to find, the mate, the match,
Somewhere in the lumped up batch.
Egads, there are two score and ten,
I religiously go through them again.
The forsaken ones go in a box,
Yearning to go to the land of lost socks.
By Cathie Tonkins, 6/27/1999