It’s the white sock, “sweatsock” sobriquet
in the old days, worn tight with Chuck Taylor
All Star hightops on the hardwood. No way
a hole was allowed then, tattered fiber
firing blister from irritating rub
of running, jumping, cutting across waxed
court. Gnarled cloth gnawing at heel or toe’s stub
till it burned raw. But now, youth fled, relaxed
in lounge chair, hole invisible inside
his worn Walmart loafer, no one around
to impress, he ignores soft gouge astride
right foot’s arch. Yet his memory rebounds
time and again that missed shot, the game lost,
for him still the unforgivable cost.
Roger Armbrust
July 23, 2020
