The Oracle

The oracle whose customer I am
Hides in the bottom drawer among my shirts
Or back of curtains, or upon the desk
Behind my unpaid bills, my solemn debts.

She won’t take questions that aren’t ready-made.
And neatly wrapped, delivered to my door,
She sends two answers, both ambiguous,
And I can choose the one on which I swear.

But still the morning seems like afternoon,
And floors I walk on echo underneath,
My oracle has told me I should take
Things just the way they are and save my breath.