by Terry Varner Benge
July 2005
I am a jar of old buttons.
You can see them through the greening glass.
They look alike, don't they --
whitish and difficultly small,
but if you rotate the jar gently in your hand,
look so close,
you'll see some sparkly ones.
I hold some red ones too, and one green,
and a few ugly fakey gold metal ones with anchors.
My buttons came from summer dresses,
men's evening starched shirts,
and heavy woolen coats.
Abalone from turquoise sea
mixed up
with plastic from stinky factories
that polluted a nearby river.
They've been filling up for years.
Sometimes someone reaches in
and takes one out.
I can't find it anymore.
It doesn't really matter.
When the glass gets jarred
I make a jewelly clatter,
clinking
like bangles on a gypsy’s wrist.
Sometime I might just tip over
and then the buttons will splatter forth,
some rolling to the edges of the floor
to remain forever hidden
under the edge of the baseboard.
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