A pair of socks, small flashes of color outside the laundry room Friday morning, glimpsed from the driver’s seat. Sunday afternoon, on the third trek to the laundry room, to gather my dried clothes, I noticed them again, soggy, dirty, ironed to the asphalt by who knows how many tires.
Whose socks these are I doubt I know.
His apartment’s in the complex, though;
He just might see me stooping here
To fetch his socks all soaked with snow …
I basketed my dried stuff, rolled them in one hand, palmed them home. Hot water, a squirt of Dawn, some scrubbing in the sink, air time, a finishing touch with the hair dryer. Took them back and laid them on the Speed Queen, where we leave the lost and found.
Poor little feet. Come to think of it, probably I’d driven over them too.