The Socks

This pair once belonged to my father,
army green,
golden on the thinning
heels and toes, decades old—
they have disappeared into the dryer-netherworld
only to return repeatedly, wiser than before—
their elastics still grasp my lower calves.
When I slip into them,
I see my father in his footwear, like Mercury,
a copper-eyed young man, like myself,
brewing with stormy promise,
prepared to soar over the dusty world.
Dear socks, don’t lead me astray.
Propel me from this dissatisfied life
to places where my father has never been.

Joseph O. Legaspi