Charles
A prophet
preaches in front of the scratched
hood of my car.
He is hidden beneath baseball cap,
and a suit of dark wool
too big for his slight bones.
His head is bowed beneath
the weight of a necklace
of trinkets only he understands.
The heat visibly surrounds
his dry and marbled outstretched hands,
but he does not sweat.
He speaks—
prophecies and ancient secrets
that are absolved
into the Baltimore humidity
without
any recompense. Without any
baptized soul
noticing.
