Hip, hop in the MoMA

(in response to pink out of the corner (to Jasper Johns), Dan Flavin, 1963)

No one would ask if you Met a bunny,
but when you hang out inside your MoM(A),
bunnies belong in Kentucky Afield? not Rothko and
the light, pink,
bunny in the corner,
coloring, confusion,
the transparent expression,
“Is he part? Is he art?” guard says,
“Stay!” I herd the free tickets pass
to snap a family photo with Van Gogh:
“I wuz here” to hear
him cry– not the bunny, the man,
inside the night,
a stuffed bunny still died, another piece, another life
skewered through the brisket
above a chalkboard, for art, life
is a bunny outfit–outside of Lent,
no pocket for a MetroCard
no Times Square girl to hand
a torn ear caught in the 1-9 turnstile;
For him “I wuz here” the Artist states.

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.