My Wall Street Garden Poem by Donal Mahoney

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.