Rummaging through my overfed desk
of retired rubble a powerless and
defenseless button bounced soundless
to the floor to tread on the brown
ocean of shag safely surrounding it.
It had no immediate individuality,
just rigid and round as if carved
from hard bone. Almost art-like, opaque,
in just the right light. Its size, less than a quarter,
but more than a dime, focused on me with
four unashamed eyes, like the hunter
targeting his prize. A button looks so naked
without its clothing.
I rushed to seek a needle and some thread.
The button both competent and able
for the working class.
But where are the jobs?
None of my shirts require your application.
My daughter’s ragdolls still retain all
their eyeballs. I even checked the
checker set, no pieces on strike,
no need for a scab.
I pinched you in my fingers and placed
you on the newspaper by my bed.
The front page read:
“CAN AMERICA CURE THE UNEMPLOYMENT RATE?”
If you can believe it,
it still hovers ‘round 9.8.