My socks are the disaffected youth of the hosiery society.
They only obey laws selectively. Such as the law of gravity. But not curfew. In fact, some of my socks have been out on the town for years. They were last seen at the corner of Washer and Dryer.
They seek the lowest level. Lower and lower, in fact, as the day goes on.
They flap off the end of my toes. Like too-long jeans that are stepped on with frequency.
They hang out where you don't want them. Like on a pants leg just out of the drier.
They are holey. A fashion statement.
They run away. Some are never found.
They don't answer when I speak to them.
They don't care how they smell to the rest of the world.