Turn Here

For us, money never was the right arrow. We didn’t know that when we first flushed to the famous streets that were never clean but always praised as aisles of thriving. Remember how even our ties had the same dark shine? The city sucked on our attention. Lean buildings asked us to look up. Birds broadcasted theme songs through the thickest of walls. But we only really listened to our green hearts. We traded and sold, lost and gained, went silent with success and failure. Now our empty suit pockets drag us down, mocking us with the busyness of men.

The breath is still liquor. The hands cleaner, but still grabby and somehow grubby. The hunger oozing from dilated pupils, still selfish, insistent. Cigarette smoke weaves through the same grunts of passion as it did after that night at the Horse & Hound.
Like it makes a difference where I wait. Scrabbling for scraps of dignity by ensnaring a man in a suit who celebrates his bonus by indulging in sushi, served on a naked woman’s body. I leave at dawn. His wife waits at home, clutching her title, ‘Mrs’, with her kids as glue, believing she has sold nothing.

The worldwide itch

My wife put her book down. “Are you okay, hon?”
“I’m feeling this terrible itch–”
“Stop, before you start something terrible, or stay up all night.” She warned, gently.
“But you know I’ve spent decades learning about finance, markets, economics…” I protested.
“Look, just let it go. Take a deep breath. Have a walkabout. That always helps.”
“Baby, just this once. The itch is bad, trust me.”
She softened, somewhat. “I understand. I get this itch every now and then–”
“What do you do then?”
“Ignore the posts. Unfollow accounts. Simple.”
“Not quite as simple. This time, it’s the President!”