Those damn red socks
that stain a white wash
pink.
Not the color of
baby girl dresses
or ballet slippers
but pink,
Like the color of ribbons
and “save the tat tas” banners
and chemotherapy drinks
and Pepto Bismol
for stomachs that wrench
in fear at each new cough
and each new pain.
A red sock dyes
like a drop of blood
on a 12 year old’s panties
and alters her dreams
from the science of physics
to the science of stains
on her favorite sheet set
and the blood of birthing.
A red sock taints
like a cruel word spoken
in a lover’s exchange,
the rosy vision
of first romance spoiled
by mistrust’s tinge.
I hate red socks
and collateral damage
that forever sullies
the pure intention
of anti-terror campaigns,
the blood of children
whose dreams are forever
altered.
No bleach, no Neverland,
no kiss, drug or media spin
can void the dye
of a red sock that worms
through a load of white wash.
