Poetry by JC Snyder

A prophet
preaches to the scratched
hood of my car.
Hidden beneath baseball cap, dark wool
suit too big for slight bones,
He bows beneath
the weight of a necklace,
trinkets only he understands.
The heat a cloak over
dry and marbled outstretched hands; yet
He does not sweat.

He speaks—
prophecies, poems,
ancient secrets absolved
into Baltimore humidity
Without
any recompense. Without
any baptized soul
noticing.

(revised poem, previously posted)