The Mystery of Missing Socks

There were black holes in the house,
minuscule moths that suctioned socks.
Or else, I thought, a conspiracy
by vacuum cleaners imprisoned
inside spidery closets. Once I caught
the Hoover, dissected its papered sack
in search of missing pairs.

The washer was a suspect as well.
Every stainless round it made breathed
stealthiness. Some unspoken centrifugal
force dried couples into mismatches.

Yesterday I eavesdropped on his call.
Business again, darling. I'll take it
in the study. He thought he could
go on closing double doors on me.