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.