The old Wall Street house had run dry, it seemed, when a young broker invented a new form of investment, more liquid, with an almost atmospheric delicacy in the exchange of values.
This discovery made the young man the envy of financiers, economists, and politicians, for he had succeeded in pumping up something real from something not; editors and art critics admired him, as well, because his associative powers were “not rooted in anything real.”
In recognition of the broker’s achievement, a bubble was inflated in the rotunda of the old Wall Street house. At the ceremony, the chief executive officer spoke a few words, and everyone including the grizzled comptroller gave the young broker an envious kiss. The transparent surface of the bubble glistened.
That night in his skyscraper apartment the young broker ordered a spinach pizza to go, paid with a credit card, forgot he didn’t have cash for a tip. “Next time,” he grinned at the disappointed deliveryman, who’d left his car 25 floors below in a no-parking zone.
The young broker climbed into bed, still buoyed by the day’s celebration.
In his dreams, an exchange of great delicacy took place; a bubble—reflective, transparent—rose out of nothing, delicious beyond words, filling his mind, expanding, why not forever, he mused, what could possibly contain it?
A collection of poems, many of which are set in the Iron Range of northern Minnesota.
Click on the cover to visit the book's Amazon page.
2 comments:
Lovely way to describe something you know is going to turn out bad!
Definite, yet subtle sense of foreboding there. Nicely done.
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