Death of a Mailman

Mr. Mailman, I dread to meet

These coming days of empty streets

You are an emblem of a time

Before we made our skyward climb

To metal coffins in the Cloud

And left our planet burnt and plowed 

Before we rode our gamma waves

Right back into Plato’s cave

Progress builds but progress breaks

Bite the apple, find the snake

I ask God to stop or slow

Our shuffle toward the kiosk’s glow

For you, I harbor many fears

I hope I see you in ten years