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.