Some days I feel like a mis-matched sock,
separated from it mate by a laundry mishap,
standing out of place, barely visible
between shoes and pants legs.
Other days I am the lost mitten in the cupboard,
catching pieces of sunlight in the curve
around the hinges as the door opens and shuts
and I am left alone.
Unless it’s the days I am a single shoe
on the road, reclining sideways
leaning into the windy wake of cars
propelled by high velocities.
I sit unmoved by time
while the world turns around me.
Tomorrow I want to be
the shoe on the other foot
and then I’ll spin around myself.