I found it under the couch.  Perhaps
it was taking a nap there, neglected
among the feral dust beasts.  I heard
the metal clink as it was roused,
the vacuum choking on the shell
of plastic like a wounded animal.  
I picked it up, felt its pebbled skin
against my fingertips.
I remembered the shirt,
its mate - how it used to fit alongside
its brothers, dutiful and plain,
but in the heat of the moment
torn and tossed aside, your hands
in a clumsy frenzy against my breast.
I imagine the sharp pain of release,
the long, arcing flight across
the livingroom - it landed on its
flat, sullen face and skittered
under the sofa.
By then we had fallen to our desire,
the bedsprings creaking to echo
our lust.  I wonder
if the button watched us, hurt and forgotten,
blamed us, like a child blames his parents
for casting him out of the womb -
a voyeur with empty eyes, broken thread
for nerves, and no voice to cry out
Stop, how could you,
You're making a mistake.