An Unemployed Button

Written by: Mike Butler

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:
If you can believe it, 
it still hovers ‘round 9.8.