Poem: The Prophet

The Prophet

The prophet sits behind his desk.
He’s hunting for the voice of God. 
Is it in the tick of the clock 
or the creaks of his wooden chair?
Could it be in the steady hum
of the furnace warming the room,
or the lilac branches gently
scratching against the window pane?

Of course it is. The prophet
knows that God’s voice is everywhere.
It is not hard to hear the voice;
the trick is to recognize it
and to know what it is saying.
What is it, God? Do you want us
to blow up a Planned Parenthood?
Should we still eat fish on Fridays?
Who is allowed to cut their hair?

It is not easy to understand
the meaning in all God’s chatter.
Another man would stop trying,
but the prophet will keep waiting
for the sake of the human race.

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