Odd
She didn’t get out much.
She never got the chance.
Pairs always got picked first.
Dancing from the drawer
in their cosy co-dependent knot.
Twin squeals of “Us! Us! Us”
“’Cause we are complete!”
Leaving her alone.
They said she was
odd.
it didn’t feel fair:
she was as good as any of them.
Polka dotted and brightly striped.
Cotton rich and super-soft.
Purple, pink, red, all on black.
A little glitter in her yarn.
She was clean and laundered.
She had no holes in heel or toe.
She’d retained her fit and elasticity
without sagging and flop.
But they said she was
odd.
Ignored in the back of the drawer
because she was different
from any other.
Because she had no match.
Because she was unique.
She didn’t get taken out
to stomp brisk autumn walks
or to flash her dots and stripes
(Purple, pink, red, all on black.)
at Saturday shoppers.
She never got to the pub
for a cheeky one after work.
Because she was
odd.
She knew she was ok.
She knew that she could snuggle
in a neatly coiled pair. She also knew
it wouldn’t matter in that pair
that they were different.
They would not match.
They would be unique.
Contrasting.
Complimenting.
They would be odd.
And they would go
everywhere.
