Nocturnal preacher

Like someone dressed for the church
He stands on street corners
At bus stops, even before temples
With his right hand raised
Calling upon people to repent
Before the second coming
He warns is imminent
The words rise and fall
Like a seasoned preacher's
Only the incoherence gives him away
Even at night I see him sometimes
In his characteristic pose
Standing under the saffron lamps
With no one around,
Not even the odd tippler
Slowly snaking his way home,
Speaking of his terrible vision
In his garbled style,
With no one to hear him
Ignored even by the street dogs
Who sleep through his call of distress