Prophet Poem by Brian Rihlmann

On a bench
outside the supermarket
sits a sunburned old woman,
grey-blonde hair frazzled,
wearing a long flowery skirt,
and a dark green sweater
on a 90 degree day.

She sits there,
rocking back and forth,
talking to passers by,
who stare straight ahead
and walk a little faster.

As I push my shopping cart
past hers,
laden like a pack mule,
I meet her eyes
and she yells,
"They don't know
what the hell they're doing! "
I nod, then continue
down the sidewalk,
out into the parking lot.

You got that right, lady.