An Unemployed Button

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.