O Socks, My Socks

My lovely socks, wherever can you be? No sign of you anywhere, it’s futile The warmth you have given protected me The thought of you gone makes me choke up bile My feet are bare, they feel overly free To find you once more, it will take awhile I recall how you wrap my feet, you beauty Mom utters, “Check again the bathroom tile!” “Wait!” Is proclaimed, “I know where they are!” “They are in the washing machine!” she says Oh no, but I got them at a bazaar “Only hand-wash these” the tag clearly states I hate my mother, this has set the bar I’ve never felt worse, with my ruined socks