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 trading floor was thunder when my uncle wore the vest,
With a hundred voices shouting and no whistle for a rest.
They signalled with their fingers and they scribbled on their cards,
And they ran between the pillars like a troop of palace guards.
The paper fell like snowflakes and the phones rang off the wall,
And a fortune changed its owner in the echo of a call.
Now the floor is calm and quiet and machines have learned the trade,
And the shouting turned to humming in the glow the screens have made.
But my uncle still remembers how the air was thick with sound,
And a handshake was a contract that was binding all around.
For the hands have changed to wires and the voices changed to code,
But a promise is still a promise on the loud or quiet road.
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Commentary
An uncle remembers the loud old trading floor. The noise has gone, but one value from those days should stay.
“The trading floor was thunder,” with “a hundred voices shouting.” Traders “signalled with their fingers” and ran “like a troop of palace guards,” while “the paper fell like snowflakes” and “a fortune changed its owner in the echo of a call.”
Today “machines have learned the trade” and the shouting has “turned to humming.” The uncle remembers when “a handshake was a contract.” The poem ends: “a promise is still a promise on the loud or quiet road.”