he was smoking menthols
and eating expired jerky
like a man
who’d given up omniscience for the night.
he looked tired.
like he’d been
believed in
too hard
by people with terrible instincts.
his robe was a bath towel.
his sandals were Crocs.
his aura flickered
between divine indifference
and mild gastrointestinal distress.
“you again,” he said.
like this was a pattern.
i asked about
the suffering,
the rent,
the way coffee tastes worse
after your hopes collapse.
he asked if i had five bucks.
i said
sure,
but just a loan.
he laughed,
hacked,
and tossed me a scratch-off
he said was “probably prophetic.”
when i looked up,
he was gone.
just a half-finished can of Monster
and a smell like wet drywall
where divinity had briefly leaned.
i still check that alley.
not for miracles.
just closure.
and maybe
my five bucks.
