Leftovers: The Brokers' Banquet

I just woke up early from a vivid dream, which I conclude, unbiasedly, is representative of the new reality of our society, the broker's paradise. In it the working people--I am one--are allowed at the end of a banquet to have a go at the leftovers, which are enough to feed an army of adolescent boys, but there are no plates or utensils. 

Wait, I've found a few paper or plastic ones the size of a small saucer. I grab them and walk around the buffet struck stupid by the amount of amazing food remaining. I'm so stunned I don't feel hungry anymore or even resentful, just frustrated and disgusted at the waste of the capital partners, who have so much more than they can consume. 

But they would rather see the leftovers thrown away than used because that's the way they are, greed incarnated, which--an interesting word--points to the brokers' own eventual end, to be consumed by death, as with us all. They must be in denial of that but it doesn't matter because my reservoir of feeling is entirely taken up by sadness at their insanity.

They are nothing more than animals, sophisticated meat, without an aspiration to be better because they have been so well rewarded for their predatory drives. What else can be said, but behold them with wonder, and from a safe distance, though there are crates for such creatures and we would be well advised to use them.