pigeons

The patsy in his lonely fabuloso

builds a home out of a homecoming,

his lifeline out of a lifelong nostalgia.

Later, out and about in the top-feeder city

holding a crumpled brown sack full

of bread crumbs, he finds the usual park bench.

They always find him, wingbursts, the convention

Of their dull gray and street ragged bodies

Juddering heads, automaton legwork, injuries

- b-but, but loved, these dead eyed bottom feeders

as though their back ally flights foretold

the shamanic instant beyond his coil.