Saw
one singular pigeon,
amid two or three dozen
milling,
foraging in the gray
fountain rain at the intersection—
taller, broader,
champagne-gold-crested—
more beautiful
than the others—
but then,
as some approaching huckster's
cart
made him scatter
in impulsive, mechanical
bland union with his brothers,
was left clinging
only
to the cheapest thought: whatever—
a pigeon is a pigeon
is a pigeon.