Wrinkles BY DYLAN FURBAY ‘24
14
Those baby blues and pastel pinks organized into a tight gingham code, a delicate message, straight from Shep and Ian. Performance cotton for the man on the go, made to wick sweat and stay cool all day. Dry clean to prevent wrinkles.
A hurricane rips through the staircase and takes his bedroom door with it. Without a pause in his motion, he takes a single brawny swipe and whips his forsaken pack as the wrinkled linens bleed onto the floor.
A back-to-school purchase, his shirt is on the precipice of disrepair before November can shut its door. The underarm fabric radiates a full-bodied odor and boundless wrinkles by the top button challenge the definition of a collar.
His shirt, the carcass of a darling fawn, picked clean by a vulture, only seeking a snack. The wrinkles, a cataract on raw honey eyes, as if carefully starched and ironed into his moribund button up.
Single sleeve frozen in a lifeless wave, strangled by the drawstrings of the gym bag left in the corner of his room. Existence in hindsight, he pays no thought to its condition. Left to rot with the ripped pants and wrinkles.
Considering the condition it’s in, he’ll likely never wear the shirt again.
