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.