Pandremecession: A K in Capitalism

Dead metal wilts green. Crippled green crumbles to zinc.            
The city rusts in the droplets of a breathing hundreds in thousands,              
though some turn to mouth more than allowed to breath              
(choked by the pathology or an inequality),
and the backwoods rolls its under-belly to reincarnation,              
of disemboweling by its own cutting shears,              
in a season where more ghosts to men twist tomato vine.              
              
And the districts feel a turnover in population,              
clocking out by a snapped telomere or the plucked amygdala,              
to a graveyard or a suburban home.
The remainder              
can't reach the clock-face when standing on the ladder of their savings              
and beg the time of an employer's clocks,
timers with limited offerings.             
             
Invisible infrastructure impervious to breath or the cessation of it              
shakes the emptying of buildings              
and cashes the coinage, the goods and services into its network in a poof,              
only tangible in the price of a mega-cap equity,              
and attending people, serving people    
retain the signs of their brands              
when soon competition inverts inward      
over which of the family of colleagues, unsettled against their will by forces of pestilence, demand and bureaucratic posturing,              
procures grain for their glasses of hours in the recessive dust traps          
             
as manna expires on the countryside    
and reapers take the main streets.