The Button

He kept at it,

the man at the bus stop,

his thick fingers clumsy

with the needle, the thread gone slack.

That loose button,

a small flag of surrender

on his worn wool coat.

The woman beside him,

reading a paperback,

glanced, then looked away.

He didn't ask.

Just kept jabbing,

his jaw tight,

a low grunt escaping

when the pin bent.

His knuckles, red and raw,

gave up eventually.

Shoved them deep

into pockets,

the small, defiant pearl

still on the ground

by his scuffed shoe.

A minor war,

quietly lost.