Seymour, This Is Stupid Stuff

Seymour, this is stupid stuff.
Left socks. Right socks. That’s enough.
What ordered world? Won’t find it here.
Try another, distant sphere.

Spare socks are what you ask, for trading.
Think they’ll fall, like fish cascading?
Sure, I’ll send them: leopards mating,
black-tuxed penguins, bears parading—

flocks of socks, from plaid drip-dry
to hikers’ wools & mauve tie-dye.
But when soiled, you make them scamper,
two by two into the hamper.

Like Noah, may your flocks increase
with falcons, foxes, fleur-de-lis.
But if they fly south or take the bridge—
Where do socks go?

                              You tried the fridge?