Write about socks, she said...
Write about socks, she said.
She likes socks, I guess.
Socks are cool, she said.
Socks are sock are socks nonetheless.
Socks are cotton clad elastic sacs,
They go on your feet and they can go up the ***.
(That last line was a reference to how I feel when I hear bull crap.)
Particularly my own when I'm intoxicated on life.
This poem is for a girl in New Jersey.
There's dirt underneath my socks, but there's concrete underneath hers'.
Jersey girl's wind is colder than mine, and it smells like one of the smallest states in continental America.
My Georgian wind always feels like a broken leaf.
I like my wind though.
There's a small draft between my toes here.
It sort of feels good.
That's what it's like when I don't wear socks though.
It sort of feels good.
As for Jersey girl.
She likes socks, I guess,
but I'm not one-hundred percent sure yet.
She is.
For Sarah.