Laundress

Given over to love, she un-balls the socks, lets fall debris of days, leaf litter, sand grain, slub of some sticky substance, picks it all for the sake of the stainless tub of the gleaming new front loader. Given over to love long ago, when her own exasperated moan bounced off the quaint speckled enamel of the top loader vowing: she'd do this always and well. She fell in love then, she fell in line— in a march of millions, you pair them, two by two, you marry the socks.