Mickey invited me over after school to help her with her homework. “You can stay for dinner,” she said.

“It’s okay with your parents?” I asked.

“They’re away,” she told me. “It’s just me and my kitty, and I’m desperate. Kitty is providing very poor inspiration.”

When I got to Mickey’s house, she explained that for her senior honor’s course called Poetry in the Real World, they were studying ‘found poetry.’ “We’re supposed to write a poem about a children’s game,” she said.

“What does a children’s game have to do with found poetry?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Mickey said. “That Professor Twassel is a kook. Anyway I picked a game called ‘Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button?’ Do you know how to play it?”

“I think so,” I said. “So how can I help?”

“Well, what buttons do you see?”

I thought for a moment. “You’ve got buttons on your blouse,” I said. “And a button on your jeans. And there are buttons on the couch you’re sitting on.”

“You’re so observant,” Mickey said. She was grinning at me in a funny way. “But you’re missing some important ones. One of them is right in front of your...”

“Oh. Now I see. Your nose! You’ve got kind of a button nose.”

“Bing!” Mickey said. “You’re good at this game. Now, tell me what buttons don’t you see?”

“Um ... I don’t get it.”

“Think poetry.”

“Poetry, poetry, poetry ... Um ... No, I still don’t get it. Can you give me a hint?”

“Okay.” With that, Mickey stood up and just like that took off her clothes. All of them. She dropped her clothing behind the couch and then, completely naked, she sat back down.”

“Now do you see what you don’t see?” she asked.

“The buttons are behind the couch? Except for the couch buttons. And your nose. Am I right?”

“Bong. Try again.”

“Um, something to do with button holes? Like they’re there but they’re not there?”

“Bong!”

“Okay. Okay. Let me think. Um, um, um ... I don’t know.”

“Give up?”

I nodded.

“It’s so obvious! My nipple buttons.” She touched each of her nipples lightly. “My belly button.” She touched it too. “My clit button.” She pointed down with a wiggling forefinger. “And—ta da!—my butt button.”

“Your butt button?”

“Right here,” she said, lifting her hip to show me. “Would you like to try unbuttoning it? It’s very tight.”

She was right. It was very tight. In the end, I couldn’t unbutton her butt button, but we did manage the next best thing, which was probably even better.

I was catching my breath when Mickey said, “Thanks so much for helping me with my poetry project.”

“Um, sure,” I said, “but I don’t get it. How does that help you with your project?”

Gleefully, Mickey dangled the used condom. “I’ll just turn this in. Doesn’t the knot look very buttonish?”

“You’re not serious. You’re going to turn in that condom filled with my jizz?”

Mickey smiled. “If I didn’t turn it in, I’d have to turn myself in.”

I was still letting this idea sink in when Mickey said, “I’m just teasing. I’m going to turn in this orange. See how the end of it looks just like a button?”

“It does,” I exclaimed. “Only one thing.”

“What?”

“I was hoping we could eat it.”

“Oh,” Mickey said. “You can’t eat my found poetry.”

I frowned.

Mickey frowned. But then she smiled. “I know—what if you ate me instead?”

That turned out to be a great idea. No question about it, Mickey is pure poetry.