Sad Clothing Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Rummaging throughout closets, finding nothing of worth
or value.

Belongings left hanging limply without clues to their
futures.

Dust gathering around shoulders and sleeves, showing
facts of being left alone too long.

Mothballs without scent, shriveled and crumpled, staring
at the walls.

Death has a habit of leaving clothes, bereft, unaware of
a person's demise.

Afterwards, strangers enter, touching with unfamiliar
hands, carelessly tossing, sorting, deciding where they
will be put to good use or if they can be used.

Where will the clothing's tears be hung when everyone
is gone?