April 25, 2011

Socks of Fire

by Susan Yount

Never mind that the manager instructed you to wear solid black or navy socks. Hey little pistol. You'll even forget the four fat fucks at table five. Want to make some extra cash? You got the round table tonight and in these smokin' socks you'll serve chicken-fried-steak, mashed potatoes and sawmill gravy scintillatingly. Let me be your pepper you salty centerfold. You. The star of the Cracker Barrel Ballet and Roadside Freak Show. Your Glowing-Charcoal Argyle Socks (No. 555), dyed in China, will stay mid-calf as you dance to the tune of cranky, deep fried okra. What time you get off work? I’m staying at the hotel next door. Even that 50 cent tip left by the two old crones is no match for these swanky Uzbekistan-combustible-cotton, hand quilted socks. Another cup of coffee hon. Your patrons will be amazed as you blaze through kitchen grease seizing oversized portions of mac and cheese for their delight. More biscuits. More cornbread. Then, sparks flickering from your ankles— the manager notices. You are fired. You’re secretly thrilled. He calls you into his office. You take a seat. Kick off your shoes. Light a cigarette from your hand-linked heel.

Ribbed, stay-up tops. Made by India’s leading hosiery-maker to the upper caste. $32. Glowing-Charcoal Argyle Socks (No. 555), as described, combustible-cotton, originally found in hell.

Bio: Susan Yount is madam of the Chicago Poetry Brothel and editor and publisher of the Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal. Her chapbook, House on Fire, is forthcoming from Tilt Press. She received top honors in the Poetry Center of Chicago’s 2010 Juried Reading and works fulltime at the Associated Press. She is an MFA student in poetry at Columbia College Chicago and has a sock fetish.

"Socks of Fire" was first published in blossombones and then in the anthology, Eating Her Wedding Dress, a collection of clothing poems.

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