The Buttonhole Speaks

The pile keeps growing, a textile heap,

Things I can't toss, secrets they keep.

Pulled out those jeans, a ghost of a fit,

Swore I'd wear them, bit by bit.

But the button, it glowered, a brassy eye,

At the stretched-out denim, trying to lie.

It wouldn't meet, not even close,

Just a tight, angry squeeze, a bitter dose.

The tag, a small lie, from years ago,

Says 'size eight,' a silent blow.

So they go back in, for a hopeful day,

While the fabric just stiffens, turning gray.