Tuesday Poem - Button Shop

BUTTON SHOP

Via Cappellari, Rome

There is no front door; the way in is through

a gash in the old man's chest. Behind his ribcage

centuries-old buttons regulate the beating

of his heart. His chambers are bordered

by pleated velvet, the arch of his aorta embellished

with medallions carved in ivory and horn.

His ventricles are red-ruched satin, stitched

by hand, reinforced with the bleached baleens

of whales. You have only to press your ears

to the walls of his chest to overhear murmurs

of treason, bear witness to acts of love

and betrayal in the eighteenth-century court

of Versailles. His floating rib transmits

the sound of insects colliding with candle light,

street lamps and crystal chandeliers. Stand close

to detect the whirr of industry - in his blood vessels

the heat and light of theatre sets

and behind-the-scenes machinery.

He is centuries old. His superior vena cava echoes

with the metal of wartime trenches

empty cartridges, abandoned ammunition belts

and lost belt buckles: there, too, the crack

and split of a sailing ship crushed

in the fist of a storm.

There is no front door;

the way in is through the gash

in the old man's chest. His body

is an apology of dull grey scaffolding

but his heart? His heart remains

a patient, all-weather place.

CB 2007

This poem first appeared in OPEN BOOK - Poetry & Images, published by Steele Roberts Ltd, 2007

For more Tuesday Poems, please visit the new communal site .