I once gave you a sock
to cover your can of beer
one hot summer day
on a public field.

I sometimes wonder
where it’s been
since that Tuesday.

Perhaps it went on an early morning jog,
and saw all your neighborhood
looking up from gravel streets.

Maybe it sat at the bottom
of your bag of ***** clothes
when you went to the Laundromat
and offered a spare dryer sheet
to a lady who smelled like
red delicious apples and cheddar cheese,

or maybe it found its way
to the top of Mt. Washington
in the corner of your trunk
behind a bag of turkey sandwiches.

There’s a chance it could have been found
by your daughter’s friend
at her eighth birthday party
and become a thwarted puppet-foe
to her warrior princess doll,

or found by your Labrador
and buried in his favorite spot
under that crooked tree in the yard,
only to be picked up by a hawk
and placed in the bed of her nest.

It’s possible you could have
packed it in your suitcase
on your first trip to Spain,
and walked with it on Las Ramblas
when you bought pitaya at the market.

Perhaps it never left
the bottom of your gym bag
and remained folded
inside your right cleat,

but I like to think
it accidentally fell
on the edge of the Grand Canyon
during your spring break trip
to be captured in a family photo
later printed and framed
in someone’s house in some exotic place
where it could be, in memory, forever.