Posted in Poetry

Odd sock seeking soulmate


Pure cotton, soft feel, sky blue,

size 11, men’s, like new.

Well-travelled, familiar

with business environments.

Open to change – sports or

perhaps the outdoors.

If you’re out there, likewise lost

and bored on your own,

don’t be shy! Get in touch, even

if you’re silk, wool, nylon, other

colour or shade of blue.

I’m sick of being the only sock

left at the bottom of the basket.

I dream of slipping into shoes,

boots or trainers, feeling the leather

or whatever material, absorbing

the sweat and get smelly with another.

By Anabela V.


I’ve been intrigued by this mystery of odd socks for a long time. I mean, why is it that they only disappear one of each pair? And where do they end up? Who takes them? I’ve imagined all sorts of explanations over the years. This poem is me accepting the odd sock reality. Keep Calm and Wear Odd Socks. What can I say?!