At Least

One bulletin said three. Another said twelve. By midday, fifteen, and a day of mourning that is not today.

None of them sat down.

I am not going to choose. A chosen number would look like a building.

The glass is still in the yard. The cars are still called cars.

What I can hear is at least said three times in one morning, each time as if the last time had not happened.

Fifteen is not the true one. It is only the latest mouth.

Friday has been named for the ones the count has not finished saying.