King Street

with cymbals on his
fingers, and the glaze
of another world
in his eyes,
messianic musings eek
madly from the street
corner prophet holding
a cup and a sign
saying beware, the end
is coming soon. and at
some point he will be
right, he'll punch
his punchless clock
and stand there at
high noon and the sky
will open and a trumpet
will sound, and all
things hidden will
be brought to light.
but for now, you drop
a coin into his cup
and hope to have lunch
first, sit in the sun,
make a few calls.