by Philip Booth

At the table she used to sew at,
he uses his brass desk scissors
to cut up his shirt.
                    Not that the shirt
was that far gone: one ragged cuff,
one elbow through;
                  but here he is,
cutting away the collar
she long since turned.
                      What gets to him finally,
using his scissors like a bright claw,
is prying buttons off:
                      after they've leapt,
spinning the floor, he bends
to retrieve both sizes:
                       he intends to
save them in some small box; he knows
he has reason to save; if only he knew
where a small box
                 used to be kept.