Socked To The Curb

Walking through this desolate New York City I sometimes refer to as a scorching Hell,
A sock was found in a grave-like ditch when crossing over to Broadway.
Taking notice of so many bodies empty of compassion,
All I can ask myself is,
Who’s foot was in that sock?
Were there too many in his or her drawer?
Did they have one in the first place?
The only time I threw one away,
It was when I made the sweet ole’ curbside my home,
Where the rain poured and glasses were full…

You can only imagine the worse after enduring so many tragedies,
Being that I’ve made it out of Darkness,
Pitch black anytime I had closed my eyes out of all people,
I have faith that whomever owned the sock,
Found his home,
Found a new sock that fits just right…

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