What a Golden Age

Street sweeper sidestepping men
down on their
luck,
trash piling up
on a Sunday.
At the cross walk
small talk, two suits
complain about
delays,
a third
says he
heard the
earth’s dying,
’Who’s crying over
trees when the future
is bright?’
forgetting money is
printed on paper.

This is the modern man--
taking,
taking,
taking,
talking
of immortality with his back
to the clock.