The Sock

It occurred by carelessness and mere happenstance. If I could move, I would stand and perform a victory dance. Dropped behind the washing machine, sliding down the back. I am a solitary sock and my color is black. I lost my partner a few months ago, paired with another, in the drawer to be stowed. We didn't get along, entwined and rolled together. He smelt like dirty feet, especially in hot weather. I caught glimpses of my old mate, while hanging on the line. Called out greetings to each other, he seems to be doing fine. I noticed a small hole, frayed across his tip. He said the left toe nail was badly in need of a clip. I've been stuck behind the machine, all covered in dust. At first happy with my freedom, now leaving is a must. I know in time I will be found, like Roger, the blue. He told me about it once when we were doubled in a shoe. We socks are always blamed for going missing in the wash. But human carelessness is usually the cause of our loss. One more thing about us socks, and this is a fact. We don't like to be folded and rolled, we like to lie flat.