THE KING’S CUSTODIAN

“I’m just a janitor,” he said,

pounding his keyboard,

which danced in tight circles

on the desk.

“I’m just a janitor,” he repeated,

combing through the day’s

high-yield bond prices.

“Garbage in, garbage out,”

as he scanned for irregularities.

“A Roomba’s coming for my job,”

he said. “I’m just a janitor.”

He spoke to the reflecting screen,

made small by the space

that swallowed sound.

“Whac-A-Mole,” he’d say.

“Financial custodian at your service.”

Sometimes his file froze brutally.

“I’m hung,” he’d say and

slam his keyboard repeatedly.

Did you hear about his cardboard box

graveyard of keyboards?

Financial Custodian, Destroyer

of Keyboards.

“I’m just a janitor.”

The King of Bonds, Bill Gross,

once wrote to him about his pricing.

The janitor smiled, aware  

marking a bond two cents

up or down

made a difference.

He beamed the whole day.

“I’m janitor to the King.”

He didn’t slam his keyboard once.

Next day his gleam was weaker;

two days later

he sent his keyboard

to the grave.

“I’m just a janitor,” he said.