Their threads did tremble in the weave
as the mission they faced through the open door
their Officer did bolst the task, not a breeze
made aware a number would not see the floor

this mission would codify, the myth of the Urban
that socks became victims, of machines that wash
not towels, not shirts nor Indian Turbans
but workers, sporties, and long tubes smelling gross

many had tried to slow down the loss
pinning together we all prayed would work
cycle completed, showed one sock and dross
the face of the washer a smug leering smirk

Legends of Urban Myth create mysteries aura
but they often contain a smidgen of truth
chest drawers of households hide single sock trauma
but no one can produce an iota of proof