Monday mornings the market's antsy playing catch-up

with a weekend's worth of toothpaste tubes, bathgel

jugs, tubs of Julio Gallo & the latest crock of shit to hit

the shelves on the way to Dow Jones' great equation.

This is not languish, not old money, soft and lawnlike,

lounging in a vault.  This is the green wish that brims

charisma, a glut of gold undug & the slut of silver

jewelry down at Tiffany's.  Take a woman who wakes

to find her love's become a junk bond: divide that

disgust by a 30-year maturity and you may unearth

a slush fund, a hush fund, a lotto-jackpot booty.

Throw in the dollar, which by noon has slammed

the ceiling: maybe Rotterdam's aflame in grease & tallow

or unrest roils the Congo & the odds are good a cure's

been found too late for the heart's senior marauder

whose dosage of pharmaceutical affairs deals a cardiac

mishap over 3 martinis.  He expires on a gurney going

down an elevator groaning with the onus where a doctor

crunches numbers into his cell phone's face.  Live on

hospital tv, a pipeline upchucks fire, bursts the earth &

perforates the upper ozone, creating half a hundred jobs

in Saginaw.  In Nuovo York, it's nearly four when a pair

of broker's oxfords slaps the floor screaming bloody

murder screaming mimi screaming what the hell are

we fighting for.  The electronic chatter of the chiffres

locks & beams a figure fairly random that slays the bull

but which for Goldilocks' best bear is apt & fair, very

meet & in the eyes of God, the odds, just right.

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