Wanted something, lost it,then found it in the yield curve,sensed the future’s plotted swoonor swag, one lone drunk sippingfrom the mermaid fountain,dark rush of clockscome to coerce evening,that misnomer—show me the daythat really ended at the level.I view the graph from above.It’s a line now,last red streak in the skybefore some recession settlesbeneath the concrete benchesof the esplanade. It’s cold.A couple leans on the rail.Are they taking a picture, or lookingat a picture they’ve just taken?Orange vesters clog the path ahead.To be safely seen or out to sell?I want to know exactly whatI’m staring at. Neon blue signin the window of the vision clinic.Song from shop speakers as I pass,one of those gold standards in whichlove must have been invented.I’m down here below the city,above water, climbing into the arcadewhere I refuse to make a purchase.I’m not carrying anything home tonight.No one I know is sick enoughfor balloons, or if they’re sick,they’re not telling. Of course,the answer’s always flowers.Who wouldn’t mind some lifein this room the leaves blow into?What do you call it? Some say foyer,but it’s nothing so romantic, just one doorwith another door beyond it.