The Fed of Many Faces
He sits in silence, tie too tight,
A priest of rates, both day and night.
His voice, a hymn of fiscal fate,
Whispers sweet lies at 0.8.
A dove at dawn, a hawk by tea,
A sphinx who speaks in FOMC.
His hands unseen, but oh, they steer
The dreams of bulls and shorts of fear.
A taper here, a hike, a sigh
He swears it’s “data,” not the sky.
But markets kneel at every word,
As if the Fed Chair were The Word.
He speaks of “soft landings” with grace,
While Wall Street sweats beneath the face.
And in the mirror, trembling men
SEE Powell wink… and raise again.
For he is Powell, and he is all
The calm,
the crash,
the rally call.
He does not sleep.
He does not blink.
He just adjusts the cost to think.
