Someone just said the word sock doesn’t belong in a poem. Nor socks. Really? Not even hysterically white ones that would pass nurse muster – socks even Pasteur himself would approve? Well I’ve just decided that what I like can visit my poems anytime, and what I really like is lying on a made bed in light just bright enough for me to see my socks – and the best socks – like the best bedspreads – are thick and white.
One day I will give in to the urge to buy an utterly un-chic chenille coverlet. What is poor taste anyway ? I even like some lawn dwarfs. It is possible – I would suggest to fashion victims and assorted glossy magazine addicts – it is entirely possible to be able to understand les beaux arts say, up to and through Bacon and Rothko and still feel something akin to aesthetic satisfaction in the presence of miniature stucco gnomes and hospital-white chenille. That latter is at its best, of course, on a metal-framed bed, especially an antique one with brass finials on the bedposts taking a bit of the edge off the tackiness, I guess. Hell, as long as I’m in confessional mode I’ll admit it: I really like chintz curtains in the kitchen.