Once, money had credibility. Its word was its bond.
The story it told was backed up by casket-shaped gold bullion
interred in cold, calculating vaults of central banks.
Once, money added up, was secure in its identity, knew
exactly what it stood for. It had standing: was seed capital,
buying power, providence, a healthy reserve for future needs.
The love of money was the root of evil. Yet thrift was virtuous.
Saving was good for the soul. The poor would always be with you.
You gave to God and Caesar, took whatever credit you were due.
Prudence was guaranteed. Fixed returns on principal assured.
Old money was deferred to, its ancestry traced to slavery,
hard labour, patented inventions, plantation estates.
The money trail led to the banks rock-solid door: time locks,
safe deposits, a manager preaching restraint, making you pay
for your excesses, demanding deeds to underwrite his trust.
Then the bottom line turned notional; losses, gains
proved mere statistics, collateral for loans a default mode
consigned to timorous, wimpish, bygone times.
Labyrinthine instruments were trafficked on
global exchanges in the blink of a cursors eye,
quicker than a bullish broker could roar Buy!
Every big deal was a bonus for the Lamborghini-owning trader
playing the markets who (such heady discretion, such adrenalin!),
with a click of the finger, could drive his pedimented institution to the wall.
Now where does the paper trail - demented treasure hunt -
lead? When you follow the money, you are directed down
a dirt road that denies you purchase on its slippery surface.
You are on your own. Press onward? Abandon route?
Who knows? The silence, like a bubble, tightens hold.
Some miscalculation made has led you down this path.