143 EAST 62ND STREET

7 1 R 1 4 3 E A S T 6 2 N D S T R E E T D O L O R E S H A Y D E N Let us celebrate the material culture of closure, a store that sells nothing but buttons, fastenings flirtatious, warlike, o≈cial, artificial, alone or in sets. Button behooves us to consider more than the imperative to secure a coat, sound the plosives, button your lip, beware the button man who pulls the trigger for the mob. The gold-painted button suspended like a planet above this narrow doorway spins in a happier universe: if you have all your buttons, you are sane, if you have enough buttons, you are rich (though you should endeavor to possess a soul above buttons at the same time). Tender buttons are sensitive body parts. Bust my buttons: make me preen, make me proud. Or buttonhole me, grab my coat 7 2 Y by its bone, wood, or silver fastenings, detain me in conversation, and if you seize me in an unbuttoned mood, I might tell all. ...