Tesla,1939

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.