Mr. Goldstone Don'T Live Here Anymore Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

Remember when
He and his wife moved in.
Into the condo on the fifteenth floor
Who could ask for more.

Sold out to their son
(Graduate of Harvard!) in Boston
Who took charge of the enterprise
That the family had managed from the first sun rise.

Seemed they could money mint
And ventured into practices heaven sent
That were designed to yield returns
That certainly no one spurns.

Sometimes thirty percent and more
And that's a month, that came through the door.
Assured that this and that could not fail
As if son and partners had found the holy grail.

Friends and neighbors from the Bronx
Found heaven on earth with salmon and lox
Far to the south in Miami or the environs
And soon Mr. Goldstone and wife were there with their sons.

It was the place to be
So, Goldstone and wife were soon free
Of the work in New York town
As they turned it all over to their first born.

Settling into a life of luxury
They live high on the hog, so it seemed to be,
But an itch for a better life soon moved the Mrs.
To want to be free of the husband pest.

Seems she had a taste for the West Coast
Where movie stars were the town's toast
And in a surprising move,
She got into a new groove.

Ditched Mr. Goldstone in the blink of an eye
And was into botox, tummy tucks, and hair dye.
Soon was making the round(s)
With the new love(s) she had found.

While back in the Florida scene
On the mister's arm was candy ala creme.
Never did they look back
As the son assured them that all was on track.

The money flowed like the best of imported wine
And when they needed more, it was on the line.
Some said that they found a new line to be played
Cocaine was the substance so they said.

Never the less all was good in the land of endless fun
And they lived the life (supported by their son)
Who found ways to invest in derivatives and the sort
Insured by the Government as last resort.

Several houses in all sorts of places
Were investments that had so many faces.
Flip one here and flip one there
The bankers looked the other way and didn't care.

Until that fatal day
When it came time to pay
A simple mortgage that was due
And the son forgot what to do.

All that was necessary was to borrow some more cash
And promise to pay from the stock market stash.
But it was the Holy Days and all
Who would expect a margin call?

The bank showed lack of understanding
And money they were demanding,
Filed papers in the court
That caused all the financing to abort.

Notices came thick and furious
Arousing the interest of the curious.
Were the Goldstones as rich as they declared?
If so how did all they owned, disappear into thin air.

The knock came as a surprise,
The movers were there with boxes and other supplies
Asking where they were to deliver the load
Of hoarded treasures untold.

A vacant house on an unnamed street
Known by others as where the dead beat
Ones who had no future were assembled
Like so many in cattle-cars, huddled.

And posted on the door of the condo up in the sky,
Were words to remember him by.
'Mr. Goldstone, ' according to lore
'Don't live here any more.'

'Have an egg-roll, Mister Goldstone.'
Rose intoned.

'There are good stones and bad stones
and curbstones and gladstones
and touchstones and such stones as them.' Herbie
There are big stones and small stones
and grind stones and gall stones.' Rose

From Gypsy.