Monday, October 20, 2014
Whose got the button?
Back cradled in the nook of the chair,
cheered by half light from a high window--
a glow which filters into the low, violet
colored room squished with art supplies,
books, and lost things-- like a jelly sandwich
made by small sticky fingers and a
distracted mother-- a kaleidoscope of jars
and brushes to make color, a kite, a quilting
hoop, unfinished children's mobiles,
paper sandals, a doll holding a miniature
bag marked "cookies," a round cardboard
box with a round lid covered
with pictures of roosters or eggs maybe--
Inside the box, though it smells like
stiff potpourri, there are only buttons.
Buttons which sound like sea shells being
sifted by searching fingers, buttons which
glide over each other like piano keys
tinkling their own shirtless tune. Yes,
I'm looking for a button to replace
the one on this olive drab blouse, an olive
colored button not too big and not too small--
no pretty small then. One is too yellow,
one is too large. Another just right, but the
metal shines too bright. I'll find one
here in a minute- I always do. But wait.
What do other people do when they lose
a button. Do they have a button box?
A box passed from mother to daughter
for generations uncounted? A box
with buttons from kitchens, weddings
and wars? Babies buttons, glass buttons,
buttons for generals and jeans?
Do they have buttons at all. Or am I
a lost button kind of person,
while the rest of the world are
Labels: feminist poetry