Before Six

Dark. Four-thirty. My left foot found

the sock before my eyes—cold ground

into the bone, that specific wet.

I stood there. Hadn't met

the day yet. Bent. Picked it up.

Gray, limp, still shaped like a cup

that had emptied. I held it.

Something in the chest that split

open—not grief. Just the cold.

Just the sock. The dark. The old

fact of being the one

who left it there. I'd undone

myself a little. Dropped it.

Went back. The lit

window slowly going gray.

The foot dried. Stayed awake anyway.