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I see a sock alone,
the match; it's mate,
alive in my memory.
I walk the entire length of the house
just to pair these two socks.
I must strike while the iron is hot.
The universe is in rotation.
The time of matching gloves will soon pass.
I am in the Wa, the Chi, The Faultless Dance.
The glove is matched to its long lost mate.
The shoes of my children
fall paired from my hands.
Then Jupiter passes the elliptic plane.
I begin to feel the lessening of symmetry.
The re-encroachment of chaos surrounding me.
Smug in its superiority
the time of matching gloves passes.
There are no more twos,
only ones.
Each object defying defenestration
Taunting the utilitarian in me saying:
"Toss me away! Free yourself if you can!
Then when you find my mate, you will do it again?
"You regret the first action;
compel yourself to the second;
wrong both times."
