As thin as a shadow, in his bowler and coat, Sigmund stands
beneath the herald of a hurly-gurly city that is all electric
fire and elephants. Through thick spectacles he watches, fixated
and furtive, the women in the penny arcade with their short hair,
and tasseled skirts; portraits of flap and jazz, envy and Electra.
Beneath the giant clock tower phallus festooned with more than
a thousand tiny white lights he plays with a fun house mirror;
twisting himself into a whole new man. Hypnotized by the sounds
of calliope and surf, he shuffles through Lilliputia's miniature
streets, the burning havoc of Pompeii, and the End of the World.
As the moon hangs low over Brooklyn and the ocean laps at Coney's
shore, strings of light, hung between side shows and candy carts,
sway in a cool breeze before they blink and fade. The pygmies
and acrobats are all in bed. The carousel is still. Dreamland
is asleep and Sigmund has left with his note-pad full of fantasies.