The man with the sign, “The End Is Near,”
is back in business

The street prophet in long white beard,
dark robe and sandals, his sign
lifted high on a two by two,
wanders through pandemic revelers
jiving in manic St.Vitus Dance style,
blanking out when or what might be
their final hours before tiny spiked monsters
penetrate their lungs and brains

I want to approach him, hear his voice,
offer to buy him a Double Whopper With Cheese
for a sit-down to discuss what he knows
about what The End will be like

The euphoric throng ignores him as they bounce
to a thump-thump-thump backbeat,
not caring if they will get another twenty years
or another forty after that

Many will wake on the sand blinded by sunrise,
hungover, fearful, mesmerized by the waves,
not knowing what will become of them
None will know where the prophet slept
or what he had for breakfast
or what God has whispered in his ear