I toss brand new socks back and rifle
through drawers for solace and kindness
The old ones surrender and smile at me
the garters have given up they are
indolent around the ankles while
flesh peeps through threadbare cloth at the heels
Neckties hang in the order they were
hung long ago, ay, that was another lifetime
the days when socks rode high and denting skin
I do not put on socks but comfort
do I mind if people see my bare legs?
I will cross them, pop one ankle on a knee
I prefer they see my contentment
the bliss in failing socks, an old mottled jacket
a life prostrate and languid at the edges.
Vincent R. Pozon
Vincent R. Pozon wrote poems, as every young man once did, and then stopped—to work, and to grow old—in advertising, where he has spent the last 50 years. Today, he chairs an ad agency devoted to supporting local industries, individuals, and movements that serve the country’s good.
When the virus came, he saw it as the moment to pick up the pen again.
