Buttons like liquorice Catherine wheels
on the cape coat I always loved you in.
No longer flush, the top one dangles
by two last threads, face down.
A couple of minutes, why not sort it?
For God’s sake, you say, turning back the lapel.
You’re obsessed. Flip through the pages
of your Grazia. Mum’ll fix it.
Monday, doing it up for work, the shock,
where, when — in the surge off the tube
at Green Park, plucked from the back
of the seat at the Curzon?
Could be anywhere. Despite the miles
of haberdasheries, nothing comes close.
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