A bull. A bear. A year from there to here.
Whoever rings the morning bell, it tolls
for you to ditch stocks for commodities,
or maybe that new school for sommeliers
on lower Broadway, where you’ll take the black
and wield your tastevin against the wights
insisting Chateauneuf-du-Pape with duck
won’t mean Seppuku for the chef. Some nights
Trump’s tweets do get to you. You wilt right through
your Ferragamos, scrolling downward, then …
A bear. A bull. A week’s bebop to blues
and back. An elegy. An ode. Aubade gone
badly wrong. Whatever today is called,
you’ll ride this tiger until you get mauled.
Ed Granger lives in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared in Little Patuxent Review, Potomac Review, Roanoke Review, Naugatuck River Review, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Delmarva Review, and other journals.