Industrial Revolution Old socks are cast aside: the violent light of tongues, of tails accentuates your tits as if a sheen of Armor-All could knight a dash, not just restore a modicum of sight, imitation leather’s “imitation” bit. Old socks can burnish pride, machismo, might even make new flesh feel just that perfect right that gives a fresh garage a perfect fit, as though your car a steed and you a knight who rides off to find dragons left to fight in a world of autos, wrecking yards, and shit like old socks, cast aside against a light whose era came and fled as if in fright the day it saw its first steam-shovel pit. No armor can protect time, that old knight, from its inevitable march to night. We stand, we walk, we fall, we deal with it. Old socks are cast aside: the violent light cannot protect our bodies from that blight.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Foxglove Journal, Welter, and Take 5ive.