Prophecy

   by David Chorlton

Nobody listens to the man in a biblical robe
who stands across from the rail stop
speaking for eternity
to people who care only for the minutes
their next train will take
to reach wherever they are going
while his words evaporate 
in traffic noise. We might slow down

to listen and consider
whether he is the conscience we don’t have
or the lunatic whose moon
floated away, but he refuses to make eye contact
with anyone. He just stares
straight ahead with a scripture
open in the sun and his heart on his thick
woolen sleeve. We could be dreaming ourselves

back in that other time
when a voice in the dust
was a sunbeam
illuminating truth. It would have been
a simple truth, something on the lines of killing
being wrong or worshipping
only one god. He would have been a prophet then,

fresh from the wilderness with ash
in his hair and insects sucking his blood
but one among us would surely
have taken him in, given him food and a bath,
and straw on which to sleep. Today there are
too many gods to choose from; he doesn’t stand
a chance unless he has a miracle

we haven’t seen before, a cure perhaps, or
houses for those without them. It must be a long walk
home for him, with his sandals so worn
hanging loose on his feet.