In Philadelphia

“I don’t want to be a freakish fowl,” he said,
on the last day of the last trip of the city,
down from the Met where the Gucci sign is,

“You’re a 700mi a day bird,” I said,
looking over the last barb of the last feather of the coat;
his talons band-less, his eyes empty–orphaned no less,
the city is full of the homeless homing–

and there I was,
begging strangers:
the Asian couples, the Ohioan families of five–temporally of Times Square,
trying to raise the 125 dollars for the 125th convention,
for Thad, my gray speckled 30-ft pigeon,

for in Philadelphia, my bird would compete,
for in Philadelphia, my friend would win,
for in Philadelphia, my brother, would go free.