Sarariman

 You peel yourself out of layers,
of linen bedding and suit up.
Dressed and energetic heading,
for the urban transportation.

Doors open up and you press,
yourself into the crowded wagon.
You dream about raising funds and,
to brokeR stocks on the parquet.

Dropping prices these days - while
the bear eats the bull in a bloody mess,
you try to be a matador but end up
being more of a scavenger, grubbing remains.

On your road built upon grief and corpses,
third-world shoulders and the working class,
you didn't realize the dancing bear
eating your seven-digit paycheck.

A bursting soap bubble suddenly,
rouse you from your slumber, and
somebody says: "Wall street, please."
The taxi light goes off, and you step on the gas.