Streaks on the window lie and you follow,
believing in the rain that never comes. Shut
up in the heavens—God’s curse until Elijah
shows up at the widow’s door, begging
for the last bread and oil, “Bake me a cake.”
Such is the arrogance of the prophets,
such are the rules of hospitality.
Without a choice, they both obey
lest the world collapse to anarchy.
Or so they believe—nobody bothered to test
the rules until after the Greeks had their day
and the doubts took root, cracking foundations.
You look past the lies staining the window,
scanning the view. No sign of your Elijah.
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