Red buttons whisper they need pressing,

standing out in the dark,

stuck up on building walls

in dark corners and darker corridors,

preaching discretion and secrecy

for the small cost of a caress or

meaningful, satisfying press.

So you press

and alarms start to blare

out about debauchery,

a lack of control or

basic common decency

so you run for your life out of doors

through houses and streets

quickly placing your feet

one in front of the other,

but there will always be buttons

wanting to be pressed

and troubles to blame your urge on.