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Trading Floor

The trading floor is empty, but acoustics populate the space. My feet slap out woody echoes only my ears hear. Refurbished lightbulbs, old glass, clean slates. The room is a curio, a vestige, recalling an outmoded way of life. I imagine years-dead rounded white men in double-breasted suits, driply sweating small fluctuations in price, the room stuffed muggy. Greedy souls, greedy mouths. Tucked into a forgotten corner of the Art Institute. No one’s wagering money now. Maybe they hold dances here.

Categories: Postcards.

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