A poem of frustration

As I look down at my stockinged feet,
I remember how much I love wearing knee highs
and even more then knee highs,
knee socks.
I wish I had some in every color,
pairs of Clessidras,
and I get all excited about knitting on them tonight,
that way they will be done soon.
But then I remember
my other socks,
the ones that need to be done soon.
And a mystery stole.
And I am sad that my knitting waits for me to return.