“And something touched me deep inside, the day the music died” (from “American Pie” by Don McLean, 1971)
Lingering in closet still,
stiff work shirt he wore.
Odor of Old Spice and twill:
starchy, checkered button-down.
Straight, long sleeves she ironed around.
Sad, his collar turns more brown,
hugging musty hanger.
(this poem for my husband John 1935-2009)