I’m a single male who often misbuttons his shirt.
On the many mornings of my half-dead resurrections,
you’ll find me with the left and right side of my shirt misaligned
and the seam between as curved as a deformed spine.
There are mindful misses out there who would never misbutton
even if they heard Gabriel trumpeting the second coming.
They’d form an attractive, and above all neat,
line of usherettes to greet the travel-weary Messiah.
Those impeccably dressed homecoming queens would welcome the returning Lord,
while I’d rush out to greet the divine in a badly buttoned shirt
or with bare chest and hairy armpits.
In short — or in shorts — I’m not a good fit for those godly-gorgeous escorts.
So listen, a single shirt misbuttoner seeks a single blouse misbuttoner
to become an all-thumbs-at-buttoning-twosome.
Fair lady, let me be your prestidigitator.
Let my deft magic unbutton the way to your heart.
But be warned, your blouse will not be rebuttoned
in conformance with proper business attire or fashion-model standards.
For the two of us will join seamlessly, shirt to blouse, hairy chest to smooth breasts
as around us each button twists into its proper hole.
If you've any comments on this poem, Richard Fein would be pleased to hear them.