Street Seer

by Patrick Roland

I saw a prophet on the sidewalk.

Nineteen degrees. Wind like a whip.

Shirtless, rooted,

as if nailed to the concrete.

Not young enough for dares,

not poor enough for pity.

A bag of clothes dangled from one hand

like armor refused.

Head tilted skyward,

as if calling on light, or thunder.

Lips moving faster than speech.

His chest slack with gray,

skin red and chapped with cold.

The city bent around him,

water skirting stone.

It did not stop.

Neither did he.

When it was my turn,

he turned his eyes on me.

No words. No contact.

I turned away,

pretended to check my phone.

He didn’t follow.

But I did.

The cold became visible

and crystallized my tongue.