Two eminent gents of Threadneedle Street
(their names sewn into their linings of silk)
play backgammon with fresh-baked cupcakes
topped in real gold and silver vermicelli.
Around them a phalanx of red-faced men
in striped shirts swollen like circus tents
tethered to earth only by their braces
scramble to place wagers, knowing
each and every one a sure-fire winner,
the stink so pungent it seeps through glass.
A child with her nose pressed to the window
mistakes the whiff of greed for that of dinner.
© 2013 Slush Poet
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