Dive Bars tees.

A bar closes on a Tuesday and nobody puts it in the paper.

The building becomes a phone store. The stools go across town. But the shirt somebody bought at the door in 1988 keeps turning up at the laundromat for another fifteen years — thin at the shoulders, the name still legible.

Nobody designed that shirt. The sign painter did it, or the beer rep did, on a light table in a back room.

The building was never the part that lasted.