The wife surveyed the closet and let out a sigh.
How many knit shirts could one man possibly need?
Ten? Twenty? More, perchance...but eighty-four? Indeed!
With a roll of her eyes, she said, “Why, my dear, why?”

Perhaps she’d miscounted, or made some such error.
She'd count again, careful not to be distracted;
If the tally stood, a freeze must be enacted.
Eighty-four to one, shirts shouldn’t outnumber wearer!

This absurd state of affairs simply could not last.
First step: no more shirts for the man with too many.
By taking a stand she’d save a pretty penny.
Something had to be done, and executed fast!

The next thought she had was an easy progression.
A plan was formed quickly, a surreptitious quest.
At least two dozen shirts she resolved to divest.
Purging the excess would become her obsession.

But this was a matter previously discussed.
“I might wear them for painting or some other chore.”
Wouldn’t sixty shirts suffice? He couldn’t need more!
The man’s stance had not changed, she was given to trust.

She soon set about her skulduggerous mission.
Shirts were transported away, a few at a time,
So no one would be wise to her textile crime.
Poof! They would vanish, a trick by a magician.

It didn’t take long for the number to be pared.
With the closet rearranged, not a soul could tell
That for twenty-four shirts had tolled a silent knell.
The wife smiled; she’d managed it, without being snared.

Years passed, memory faded of what she had done.
’Til the day she heard rustling and somehow just knew —
“Hey, honey, I can’t find my shirt...the old red one.”