Buttoning the buttonsOn his shirtsleevesBecause his hands are too arthritic nowTo button it himself. Later we play music in his living room.He’s lost his ear for tuning soEverything is slightly out. Driving home later,Never knowing when this will beThe last time I make the drive.We don’t know where we’ll end up.And all I’m left with isThe memory ofThreading the button through the holeAt the end of his sleeve.