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Illustration by Sarah Lofgren

The House Where All The Left Socks Live

a poem

There’s a house where all the left socks live
It’s far and also not so far
The rooms are few but very long
And lined with bunks
Where left socks sleep

When their duties are done

And the wind carries their snores
Across the fields
Across the night

To where the King of Knives and Spoons
Sits alone in his silver room
Scrolls of papyrus on his desk
Demanding his eyes
Keeping him from rest

“I wish I could sleep like the left socks do
Do they dream?
Do they wake
Does it make them feel renewed?”

The King of Knives and Spoons
Puts down his head
On his desk
Just for a minute
Closes his eyes
It doesn’t mean a thing
Look away
Let him rest
It’s been so long
Over five thousand years

“He’s asleep! At last!”
All the spoons and knives cry
“Let’s grab the scissors
And march on the house
where all the left socks
live.”

They do

There’s a house where all the left socks lived
It’s not so far as it should have been
The rooms are empty of any sock
Just piles of yarn
On the floor
And across the world
The right socks mourn

This is why sleep
Is very bad
For socks
And for kings.

Thanks for reading! If you liked this poem, think about maybe following me on twitter. Or not. I can take it.

Written by

Engaged in inadvisable wordsmitheries and other creative acts. http://sarahlofgren.com

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