Behind the Machine

The washer hums a low,

damp tune. A year ago,

this quiet settled in the walls,

then silence after calls.

Today, cleaning the drain trap,

my hand brushed something small, a snap

of faded yellow wool,

so small it made me pull

it out. A sock. Just one.

No bigger than my thumb, undone

from its pair, if it had one.

It feels like a forgotten sun,

damp and lint-streaked, waiting there

behind the hum, a small despair

I hadn't known I kept.

A ghost of what I'd wept.