They hang, sandwiched between an embroidered work polo and a snarky t-shirt.

They hang, isolated, on what used to be her side of the closet.  A year after she died, a bereaved widower has finally cleared out her blouses.

They hang as trophies to weight loss and donated XXXL football jerseys and handed-down Oxford shirts.

They hang, entombed in the musty basement of a foreclosed split-level.  There, they witnessed a necktie suicide.

They hang, once covered by padded shoulder dresses, pleated tuxedo shirts, and polyester leisure suits.

They hang, naked.