Our neighborhood prophet in the ancient strip mall tries
to warn us of our impending doom.
Maybe he wears the stark white tunic with the crimson cross
slashed across his chest because his scrawled poster signs
about the end time went unheeded
by passersbys in their automobiles.
We zoomed by in our sedans and gas-chugging SUV neglecting
to wave so he took more solemn measures.
Last time I saw him, he had gotten his message more succinct.
Help Trump build the wall.
No one ever stops to hear more. A lone woman brings water.
They act familiar with each other. She might be tied
to him for more than his message.
All the while, we Midwestern drivers scowl at him
disapprovingly, and use his presence as a harbinger that
there is an intersection ahead.