Leone Park Beach, color and brick. Showers spit in my face as I mount a grassy knoll and head away from the water. I am barefoot, and realize my penitence at Touhy and Sheridan just before stepping into a pile of glass that was, last night, a forty of Colt 45. I stop at a bus shelter that smells worse than a pimp’s armpit, step into my decks, then stride north on Sheridan. Yellow and orange fragrances behind a black garden fence at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Emil Bach House, then sudden silence at Fargo. No cars, no wind. Just some coot smoking a cigarette and lounging on a bench. Finally, tape rattles in the breeze on a light pole. A missing cat poster has gone missing.