Fountain Elf

the monotony of delivery echoed
and water’s mist mellowed those creeping
closer to hear.

a wooden box, no megaphone, the little
elf climbed aboard and raged
against the devil.

his eyes had seen him,
he was sure,
clutching babies and pinching
ears of teens who left
the road to look for vice.

except the audience heard VICE spelled out,
yowled deep into eardrums waiting
for answers.

not too many stopped; no one put
money in the shoebox.
no, this grand speech
was crazed by too much
fervor, too many pin wheeling gyrations,
over-practiced and using shame
in bursts of cacophony.

later, he walked away,
sat down by the fountain
and licked water droplets
from the rim, too ethereal
for a real drink,
much too awed
to be bold.