My Wall Street Garden
It’s midnight
and I’m too tired to stroll
in my Wall Street garden
to check on the nightlife
among the flowers
and wildlife
under the moonlight
so I let my eyes
float silently out
above the garden
like flying saucers
spying on all below.
At dawn my eyes return
rheumy and red and tell me
the garden’s a war zone
and warn me
not to go out there
without a bazooka.
They tell me
of moles and voles
popping out of holes
to be eaten alive by
possums and coons
with saliva dripping
as they forage hell-bent
for something to eat.
Moles and voles are
something to eat.
Possums and coons
are Wall Street gluttons.
They hold the Trump card
and dine at will.
Donal Mahoney
