Last Day of Prophecy Season

I

Dawn breaks late. Grass dormant, Winter stones,  
cold. Delphi’s summer heat, evanescent.

Pythia brews tea, walks at a deliberate
pace, wraps herself in violet shawl and slippers.

She dreads the icy, hard tripod, her daylong perch.

Gilded brass, all show. Faux finery. If their worship
were true, her seat would be padded, covered with Egyptian linen.

Many of Pythia’s attendants are gone Apollo’s chariot is packed,
ready for summer frolic among the Hyperboreans.

Voices carry across chilled air. Pythia sips mountain tea,
eyes close, insides warm. She sets the pace.

II

Hey, man, whose idea was this? Pay drachmas, climb
craggy path in frozen daybreak to listen --  to what?

A crazy woman on a bronze tripod proffers
predictions? As if she knows, as if anyone knows.

Charade. And everyone plays along. If I don’t,
my reputation tarnishes. What this money could buy,

makes me cry. Instead: expensive ambiguities.
Your future could be this, possibly that.

Pick one lady. Earn your bribe. People shove,
yell, barter for a place in front. I hope time  

runs out before I reach the top. I’ll take my offering,
buy a warm jacket, drink sweet wine.

Published in Everything Intensely, San Francisco Writers Conference 2022 Writing Contest Anthology and in Cathesix Northwest Press, Jan – February 2023