I had a vision of the face of reality
holding a leather briefcase, eyes dead and dark and hollow,
suit, swiftly, straightly sliding down
the sidewalk;
racing til death for the heart of the capitalist facade he helped build,
yearning inside for something he long ago killed himself,
dying each moment, and with every breath he takes,
the yuppie starts to walk a little faster,
but he’s already late.
