His clothes are waiting.
There’s a pile on the floor,
tucked into the corner
and ready to be washed;
another on his chair,
haphazard but clean.
A few others sit in a basket,
neatly folded.

He would have picked through them
the next morning,
getting ready for the day.

I pull out a pair of black pants from the dirty pile,
notice a bungee cord strung through
as a makeshift belt.

I fold them slowly,
tuck them under my arm,
and, for now, leave everything else behind.