Poetry of Issue #8        Page 8

The Elves Have Left the Dryer

I feel consoled when I find old
and missing socks to have and hold,
for though a dryer’s tub requires
latches which forbid its lid
from letting undies and like sundries
sneaking out without pro-quid
(which, in English, means “for what”
and not some legal scuttlebutt),
we find, as everybody knows,
when we’re not searching for our clothes,
odd underwear, some here, some there,
without a sign of wear and tear.
These never-mentioned, well-intentioned
under-items long conventioned
for support make no retort
in spite of efforts to extort
the reasons for their missing seasons,
whys or wheres of their affairs;
they make no defense for their absence,
for their presence, not a whence.
And so, should they have disappeared
the while our searching persevered,
assume they found themselves new homes
as toasty comforters for gnomes
whose wiles of styles change with their whims
until they seek from hers and hims
what new attire meets their desire
(and every dryer their next supplier)
then once each new bold fad is old,
returns are ours to find and fold.