Lunch break

The weather in this city
can turn faster
than the blades
of a helicopter
cradling a stunt man
crushed when he failed
to vault an Accord
over a stack of crushed vans
to a hospital on the edge
of the wrong side
of the highway
billowing steam
and masking the quiet
cries of newborns
as snow makes the street soft,
silent and glow golden
beneath the light
of streetlamps
tomorrow the sun will
melt and oil will pool
beneath salt-stained cars
or maybe hail, thunderheads
and a flock of tropical birds