He left his shirt
Probably on the floor
A foot from the laundry basket
Like men do
Just a t-shirt, or polo
Crumpled carelessly
To remember
And wash later
But later, never came
That night, a routine errand
Cut short by the scream
Of tearing metal
She drove to find him
And stopping a distance
From flashing lights
Could see him there
With her son
Two shirts, blossomed red
I stepped into the vacuum
Of her living room
That next morning
Surrounded by hushed strangers
And clawing questions
That old shirt
He left on the floor
Now clutched to her nose
In desperation
To hold him a moment longer