Philip Booth - Sorting It Out

At the table she used to sew at,
he uses his brass desk scissors
to cut up his shirt.
                            Not that the shirt
was that far gone: one ragged cuff,
one elbow through;
                              but here he is,
cutting away the collar
she long since turned.
                                 What gets to him finally,
using his scissors like a bright claw,
is prying buttons off:
                               after they've leapt,
spinning the floor, he bends
to retrieve both sizes:
                                he intends to
save them in some small box; he knows
he has reason to save; if only he knew
where a small box
                            used to be kept.