The oracle, it seems, is out of town;
The vinyl tripod where she sat in state
Stands vacant on the twenty-second floor.
Still, we are safe… and at a later date
We may remember what we came here for.
(And meanwhile, the dull stars come floating down
And flatten on the window as we wait.)
Speak, Muse, of hope, when on the hopeless ear
Echoes of enterprise begin to fall:
Behind the arras of the waiting room
Soft crazy laughter trickles through the wall
Where three mad clerks are typing up our doom.
Lights in the street—the oracle is here.
The thing we wait for lurches down the hall.
Phoebe S. Spinrad