Missing Socks

Only 30, maybe older,
and I am tired
of sorting truths:
patches for a quilt
sown by generations

mismatched socks
content without brothers
jumbled wires attached
to broken ear buds
rusty screws thrown
into an old coffee can

hapless attempts
to organize the
mess, the tangle,
that will just get
muddled up again.

How I crave
for one story
a cipher
a compass for this
ever-changing labyrinth