WRINKLES

BY DYLAN FURBAY ‘24

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 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 .

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 . 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 .

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 .

Considering the condition it’s in, he’ll likely never wear the shirt again .