Last week I saw a man with a prosthetic leg wearing New Balance running shoes on both his congenital leg and prosthetic one. He was walking across the crosswalk in a hurry, taking assured strides, his arms and legs making wide triangles of negative space, and I wondered which Beatle was he. What would seem only natural was in fact very odd and somewhat disturbing: he wore an athletic sock on both feet, so that the one on the prosthetic leg — without a calf, shin, or any flesh to straddle —lethargically mouthed open at the hem in this absurdly comical way, which of course isn’t funny. The metal rod which offered tibia-like support was circled, perfectly untouched, by this droopy sock. Something in the way, he moves I sang to myself, and wondered if Abbey Road didn’t mark four men at the start of a race leaving one another for good, sliced in half by ego’s finish line. I followed behind him, like George Harrison the grave digger, my fingers knotted into a fist, a most difficult chord. This dysfunctional sock, its sad cotton halo wanting to light an angel but getting a person instead, has been a helmet in my mind. Each time my God-given feet now enters a sock, a warm embrace once unnoticed, I gratefully give emptiness a pass. I know nothing of that.