If the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls, then inquiring minds wanna know
what the prophets are spittin’
in this day and age.
So I slip my metrocard through
and jump the stile just to be real
to get a look as to what the prophets speak of today.

The prophets are cloistered, isolated,
ignoring and ignored,
even when the loudest shout maddened truths,
begging for change
asking for fruit
offering song.

The prophets offer blessings
but few take them.
Few respond, eyes down,
shielded by screens,
by plugs, by masks.
The prophets provide connection.
The world avoids.

I avoid.
I avoid this system,
a tourist here.
I view with widened eye,
distant from these affairs
as if I know better.
I know not a thing.

What these prophets could teach
if I would but read the writing on the walls.