The winos on the benches, in between
swigs and catnaps, would refer to him
as Saint Francis of Bryant Park. It was
he who fed pigeons, from compassion or
compulsion? Alternating current had,
no doubt, already touched his brilliant mind.
The father of the wireless connection,
he’d reach into his bag, half-idiot,
half-genius, whispering in tender coos.
Having towered over both Marconi
and Edison, he’d toss the creatures crumbs
as part of some hermetic ritual.
Then he’d hightail it back to his small room,
converted years before into a roost,
and wait for his true love, a white dove.
He’d brood beside her on the Teleforce,
a weapon to end all wars. And when she died
he understood his work on earth was done.
