One Sock, One Side

The bus is late again, I stare

through diamond holes in empty air.

A fence, all rust and woven steel,

where nothing new can truly feel

like coming home, or going out.

Just broken glass, a silent shout.

And stuck within its rigid grid,

a single sock, forever hid

from laundry day, from its lost mate.

A sun-bleached flag, a sorry state.

The top wire glints, a thorny crown,

on something cheap, that holds things down.

I wonder which side it fell from,

or if it simply came undone.