Ode to aprecious' Socks

Ode to my aprecious' socks (with a lot of help from Pablo Neruda.)

aprecious left me
a pair of socks (in the washing basket)
which she had worn herself
on her lovely feet,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped them into my mouth
as if they were the best thing of the earth
and ran about a bit. A lot.
As if knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent green socks,
I love the wool,
I'm not dull.
What could be better than socks
shot through with stinky foot?
Held in my mouth with love?
Nothing. Nothing ever does come close.
My mouth was honoured in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome, for the first time
my mouth seemed
unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.
But I couldn't let them go.
Who could? Who would?

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep stamps, resisted the urge to hide them,
dig a hole and
tuck them deep inside.
There's more fun in having her chase me,
especially when there's nowhere to run to.
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
But ran around again.
And again. And again.
Such lovely wool. I'm not dull.
And jumped on the bed.
I was like an explorer in the jungle
I stretched out on my new bedroom chair
And chewed them to death,
her magnificent socks
full of holes,
and then looked round for her shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
(and her shoes)
if she's daft enough to leave them near me,
how could I refuse?