There is tragedy in the arithmetic of Wednesday afternoons.
Two by two they're matched, then paired
and placed in a warm embrace to rest softly, together.
But left behind, with the dryer sheet, these three:
one whose double has been missing, adventuring somewhere
in unknown jungles for forgotten months;
two that nearly match, but not quite,
and so are only worn when all others have been chosen--
held in reserve until no one else is left,
but singly, no folding together so that they
will have someone to hold on to in the quiet dark.