There is
a line of gray doves
-fleas
in the mussed feathers
and their beaks
without a breadcrumb- here
at the National Bank.
In
the sky a midday sun
-its yellow
rays
off the buildings-
slides over their heads.
Some
seem now to be raising their voice;
others don't say a word.
And
if you open your eyes you see
the pitted beak and
the
belly
of these retired doves.