I know I still love my husband
because I don’t mind
that he leaves his socks
everywhere
like he is a wild animal
and they are the skins
of rodents
he has eaten,
scattered constantly
around our house
in the strangest places
like the mantelpiece
or on top of my desk
or in the middle
of the living room floor,
and I know I still love my husband
because it is not despite these socks,
but because of them,
their lifeless carcasses
comforting proof
of his absent-minded wanderings,
little clues
of where he was
each time he had a big idea
that for some reason I will never know,
made his feet
need to be free.