Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Wall Street to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
The screens turned red on Monday like a sunset in the rain,
And the numbers kept on falling down a long and slippery lane.
The phones began their ringing and the faces lost their tan,
And a whisper ran the corridors: get out while you can.
I watched my little savings melt like candles in the heat,
And I felt the floor beneath me slowly sliding from my feet.
But an old clerk by the window didn't sell and didn't run,
He said, I've seen a dozen Mondays and they end when they are done.
The market has a heartbeat and it stumbles now and then,
But it always finds its footing, and the green comes back again.
So I held on through the redness with my breathing slow and deep,
And by Friday I was grateful for the calm I chose to keep.
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Commentary
On a day of falling prices, panic spreads through the office. An old clerk shows the speaker another way to respond.
“The screens turned red on Monday like a sunset in the rain,” and a whisper ran: “get out while you can.” The speaker's savings “melt like candles in the heat,” and the floor seems to be “sliding from my feet.”
“An old clerk by the window didn't sell and didn't run.” He has “seen a dozen Mondays” and knows the market “always finds its footing.” The speaker holds on “with my breathing slow and deep” and by Friday is “grateful for the calm I chose to keep.”