Unlucky Socks

I have these clothes,

certain clothes, that I

worry about. I worry they

may be unlucky.

I stand in front of my closet and

look in on the shirts hanging and

try to decide if one shirt is

less lucky than another.

Was I wearing this shirt the last 

time I got laid? Or was this the

shirt that bore witness to the

breaking of my heart?

There are certain socks,

boxers, tee-shirts, sweaters,

that can’t be worn together

because the combination is unlucky.

It isn’t about matching or

coordinating, it’s about apparel fate.

Is this an unlucky pair of socks? Will

things go my way in these pants?

Was I wearing this when so and so

died? Were these boxer shorts

responsible for that

accident?

Did she love me in these pants?

Will this shirt repel the object of my

affection?

Will I be wearing these socks when I

kick the bucket?

It’s hard to get dressed some days,

when a few outfits have some

unlucky memories attached to them.

Maybe I should dress in the dark.

Although I’d probably trip over something

on the floor and stumble into

a wall and crack my head open

and bleed to death.

“Damn unlucky socks,” would say the

paramedics who arrive seven

days later to find my corpse

crumpled on the floor.

“If only he had been barefoot,”

another paramedic would say.

Then they’d let the fire men in

to burn all the cursed clothing.

I look at my clothes like talismans,

they either help me or they hinder me

and it’s completely irrational and

makes me wonder how I got that way.

But then, I’m not wearing a

lucky shirt today, so of course

I’d think that. A lucky shirt wouldn’t

worry about it at all.

Maybe tomorrow

I’ll wear a lucky shirt

and things will be different,

unless the socks are unlucky.

Damn.