Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Wall Street to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
At four o'clock the closing bell rings out across the hall,
And the day's long fight is over for the winners and for all.
The screens go still and quiet like a lake when winds have died,
And the traders loosen neckties as they gather up their pride.
Some leave with heavy pockets and some leave with empty hands,
Some are smiling in the elevator, some are drawing plans.
I step out into the evening where the golden lamps are lit,
And the old stone columns glow as if they're proud of honest grit.
For the market is a river and it never stops its flow,
But a trader must go home sometime to the ones who love him so.
So ring, you bell of evening, ring, and let the traders rest,
For the wealth that waits at supper is the wealth that's truly best.
Poet of Wall Street · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
The book closes as the trading day closes. After all the rising and falling, the speaker goes home to what matters most.
“At four o'clock the closing bell rings out across the hall.” The screens go “still and quiet like a lake when winds have died.” “Some leave with heavy pockets and some leave with empty hands.”
Outside, “the golden lamps are lit” and the columns “glow as if they're proud of honest grit.” The market “is a river and it never stops its flow,” but “a trader must go home sometime.” The last line: “the wealth that waits at supper is the wealth that's truly best.”