The title "Banking" gives the key to a poem that is short and a little puzzling. The speaker seems caught in a world of money and risk, where some people rise so high that others are pulled down. "The flock" suggests a crowd moving together, perhaps investors or ordinary people following the same promises. Putting on a hat for them reads like taking on a role, or playing along with something one doesn't quite trust.
The feeling is one of being trapped. Those at the top "deceive," while the speaker is "so low" that escape isn't possible. The last lines are the most telling: "troubled hopes" are "made even with / my money." Hope has been turned into a sum, balanced like an account. The mood is dry, resigned and quietly bitter. The short lines add to this, so that the poem feels clipped and tightly counted, much like the speaker's sense of what is left to them.