Poetry

The Black Sock Hole

By 1st January 2006December 9th, 2019No Comments

When you’re at peace and sleeping calm,
As the world passes by in the night,
Then off goes the clock with that dammed alarm
That wakes you up with a terrible fright.

It’s time to get up, you feel so depressed
When it’s dark and you stare into life,
It’s time to get up, rise and get dressed,
Trying not to disturb your wife.

On the floor you place your feet in gloom
Then you go to turn on the landing light,
Not the one in the bedroom
As your wife moans that it’s far too bright.

You then leave a small crack; ajar is the door,
So you can just see what you need to do
Then in the dim light as you cross the floor
You stand on a high-heeled shoe.

You then stub your toe on the Hoover
And try not to scream at the pain that you feel,
Your wife; she just grunts and rolls over
And pulls up the quilt for her ears to conceal.

Then after the pain has subsided
You then have to try and get dressed,
The first thing that has to be decided
Is; Where did you put that clean vest?

But your problems are only beginning,
It’s as if the morning sarcastically mocks.
The goblin’s you believe they are winning,
As you try to find a pair of black socks.

There’s one with a hole where you big toe does leak,
Its mate appears to have been ate by the dog.
The ones that you wore, only last week,
Have gone crisp and as hard as a log.

Your wife then mumbles of pair that are clean,
You say, “where are they? They’d really be fine,”
But too late they’ve been in the washing machine
And they’re still hanging out on the line.

So you then look outside through the window,
Only to see the rain pouring down,
This thing it will not defeat you, so,
You put on your old dressing gown.

Out into the cold you reluctantly stumble.
The clothes have blown and are all in a muddle.
Under you breath you curse and you grumble,
As your slippers get stuck in a puddle.

Now going bare footed in mud you have sunk
Your face twitches, just like a rabbit.
For the pair on the line they have shrunk,
Shrinking socks is my wife’s favourite habit.

Your temper now starts to get frayed,
You find a pair that the kids haven’t wore,
But the elusive black socks still evade,
As one is size seven the other a four!

On the children you check one by one
And you see such an awesome sight,
For they’ve all got odd socks on
As one is red and the other is white.

Oh! Where, oh! Where are all the black socks?
It must be seventy pair that I’ve bought
I should keep then all locked in a box
And then set a trap for the thief to be caught.

There’s something sinister about this place,
Have all socks got a body and soul?
Do they all travel up, high into space?
Then disappear into a cosmic black hole?

Peter Bruffell

Author Peter Bruffell

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