button up

As another button comes loose from my aging black coat, I remove it and

place it in my pocket. I can’t imagine I’ll actually do anything with it,

but I don’t want to let it go. Soon I’ll have a pile of threads and buttons,

and that’ll be all that’s left of this beloved object. Each minor tragedy,

each lost button, is another nail in its little box-like coffin. I’m wearing

this dying thing.