Wet Socks

Wet socks

make grumpy men:

the same wetness

that spoil their feet

draw out feminine curves,

cotton coyly clinging.

 

O if only clinging

to them were not the darned socks!

But life is full of twists and curves,

concede the men

at a distance of several feet,

while the wooing-thwarting wetness

 

couple madly with other puddles of wetness

beneath impotent umbrellas clinging

to their owner’s feet,

wetting more socks

and enraging more men

by being too intimate with unattainable curves.

 

The corner of her mouth, curves.

In times of wetness,

the sneaky peeks of men

come hard and fast and embarrassed, clinging

to a sense of chivalry as tired as worn socks,

as tongue-tied as verse in scrambled feet.

 

O Father, by Your Holy Feet,

Deliver them from her curves.

No one ever socks

another, or wrestle in wetness,

or rage with good sense clinging

to the gutter without cause. Deliver lust-struck men,

 

O Father! A-men.

It is laughable that men then turn to her feet,

clad in stockings clinging.

She cuts across the curves

of the pavement, slick with wetness,

a cruel betrayal of socks.

 

How fickle their clinging desires, these soggy men!

They who forever misplace their socks and trip over their own feet,

Craving curves glimpsed in moments of exquisite wetness.