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Poetry #156
(published October 30, 2003)
by Christopher Barnes

The fledglings in the bullpen are dialing
Mr Jacobs and Mr Ichan.

Databases squeeze the brokers
into horseshoes of screens,
silicone brains computing.

A crunch of consortia, charm-rubbed
into nuts and bolts.

The double-dealing light
of Black Monday has gone,
Wall Streeters are ticklish.

Ballast-poised investers
anchor under blue skies.

And the bear and bull monosyllables
are slingshot across the floor.

"My word is my bond!"
in the pit they mouth.
And the circuit-breakers
on the exchange
plot to hitch an intrigue
helping out the big noise,
the solid gold kingpin,
the devil himself
on Capitol Hill.

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