Button Box by Neil McCall
My granny had a button box,
a battered tin with scenes of pre-war London;
it held exotic currency
from redundant outposts of empire,
Rhodesia, Straits Settlements, East Bengal,
where I'd have sold my baby sister into slavery.
I scooped handfuls
and let them trickle through my inky fingers;
two-hole, four-hole, mother-of-pearl.
I would spend, spend, spend
as we'd never had it so good.
Sometimes they became shorthand,
favours for my private soccer league;
a boy I didn't like supported Spurs,
so its large black raincoat button
always hovered in the relegation zone.
I haven't seen such a box for ages
so if I catch an errant button now
I will search for some approximate thread
and clumsily re-attach it;
that is, if I can be bothered.
If not, the item's fast-tracked to the rag bag,
for my wardrobe sags
with cheap imported shirts.
My kids, mesmerised by mayhem,
stab at keypads
and my cuffs are secured with safety pins.
