At night, before I lay me down, I peel socks from my feet
And, for good luck, I crumple them and give a hearty yeet
Toward the plastic hamper that collects my dirty clothes
And pray the universe will bless my two expectant throws.
When I began, I lofted them, unballed, and often missed
The hamper’s gaping mouth. I steamed, I clenched and shook my fist.
But airborne socks unfurled and landed on the couch and shelf—
Not in the bosom of the basket. How beside myself
I was that cosmic fortune thus eluded me each night:
Was I not chosen to escape the other human’s plight?
Was I not picked from ‘mong the rest to lead them to the light?
Then why am I not favored in my quest? It isn’t right!
But soon I learned that rolling both my stockings into balls
Could make them reach the basket if their flight path didn’t stall
Because of missing follow-through or concentration strayed
Or breezes from a window my trajectory betrayed.
In short, there is no magic that I can rely upon;
No potion, philter, miracle, no chanted antiphon
That curves so much as socks from landing where physics demands
Nor grows a stunted leg, nor shrinks unruly thyroid glands.
Some see this lack of intervention by transcendent forces
And say our fate is sealed — can’t alter planets in their courses.
But I prefer to think that there’s a lesson to be taught:
That God is what God is; what’s more, that you and I are not
Divine, but specks upon a moistened stone that takes a spin
Around a star not all that grand when seen against its kin,
Who scratch the soil and plant a seed to earn their daily bread,
Who grow and feed and mate and bear and see their children wed
And one day yield their spirit to some greater purpose we
Can barely with our monkey minds imagine, plumb or see.
Perhaps God in his heaven watches us toss crusty socks
And wonders, how long do they need, how many awful knocks
Before it dawns upon them that there’s magic all around—
The flow of air, the bulk of rock, the lightning’s cracking sound—
That holds enormous secrets chiseled one by one by one
That piled on one another let their children touch the sun.
Image generated using DreamStudio
Love the underlying themes and the way you convey them. Was I present at the moment of inspiration when you were describing sock "basketball"?