The blue-black plumes of the fountain parched my yearning, and a tuft of cellophane clings fondly to my foot like a diadem. Down that street an uproar is dwindling, a small word had been magnified and was once again shrinking back to its reasonable size, and Joe Blow drifts down to the riverbank searching for relics, a man of sorrows. Then a new turmoil infects another flock, it’s a good corner on which to sell balm. A seer bobs along, oblivious or beguiled. I look for my reflection in a window: Goodnight Joe, Goodnight Joe, Goodnight.