THE accepted form of
societal suicide:

a glossy three-piece suit
with eight credit cards in tow,
(seven of which, are maxed out)
as you grind away
bits of bone against
the American Dream machine,
life flashing by
at a blur-pace.

But that's ok,
'cause you only need one more thing
before you can relax.

Unless you need one more thing
after that.