Well what can you say? Socks in the dryer vanish. I’ve a theory they all wind up in Switzerland. I try not to dwell on it. There are so many other things to obsess about. Big things. Real issues. Global warming. Racism. The plight of the disabled. Ah but those socks.
Like Pablo Neruda I believe socks are tokens of love as well as comfort. When socks disappear a bit of the soul goes with them. This is not a small thing. Not at all.
When a sock disappears a man or woman, a child, secretly feels as if a kitten is gone.
No one talks about it. There are no conferences at the United Nations.
And the Swiss, those louche and disreputable hoarders, well they can’t disguise their role in this with cuckoo clocks.
Why do I know the Swiss are the ones?
Because no other nation in the world can keep secrets.
If the British had those socks they’d be lording it over us.
If the Chinese had them they’d find a way to monetize the matter just like Americans.
If the Italians had them they’d declare a festival.
I hesitate to think about the French. But whatever they’d do they’d do in public.
Under the Matterhorn lie the soul-socks of the world, nested in frozen edelweiss, guarded by Bernese Mountain Dogs.