Nothing moves at noon.
The sun halts mid-sky, a pensive fire
burning above the jagged heaves
of stalled cars on freeways,
the long lines of steel joined at a distant edge.
From my window
I can only see an old man
atop the last parking tower
pressing lips to brass, fingering notes.
He breathes a low sigh into the world
repeating blues in secondhand time,
a lone trumpeter calling Jericho down.