Cold fingers

I sit and look at candlesticks,
The red, the green, the fat, the thin,
With double-ended smokeless wicks,
Pretending I know how to win.

I look for hammers, up or down.
I look for shooting, morning stars.
I look for spinning tops around,
Forgetting all my burning scars.

I use stochastic modeling,
The fancy math that gives me hope
I will be right in predicting
The fifteen-minute pricing slope.

But when it comes to pressing keys,
To clicking buttons – buy and sell –
I think about the broker fees
I have to pay for loss as well.

I think about the short-term gains
And all the taxes they invite,
And question whether what remains
Is worth the pride of being right.

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