Like phantoms sliding quickly through thick walls,

beyond color and odor, everything,

thy entire being hath disappeared

where, pedal glove, softener of footfalls,

hath thou lost thyself to? Can thy voice sing?

Thy sibling doth walk all alone, I fear.

The rumbling heatbox where we saw thee last,

maintains a strong and stoic pokerface.

Our internal investigation hath

yieldeth little. The washer neighbor passed

along condolences: what a real waste

of cottony meekness, how truly sad.

I shall avenge thee, oh sock that was killed

Sewing back thy memory string that’s spilled