Poetry / Stevie Smith Writes about a Sock

The heel is frayed,
She says, dismayed.
The toes are wearing thin.
She sits alone on her armchair throne
And darns and darns again.

The sock is empty
And the foot
Has long ago gone roaming.
She squints in insufficient light,
Not smiling, but frowning.

The stitches neat,
The needle true,
The thread is never slack.
If she can mend all of his socks,
Perhaps he will come back.

Oh no no no, he'll never come:
She knows without a doubt.
She sits alone on her tattered throne
And rips miles of stitching out.

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