You are my lady of synchronicities.
An oracle sits on your hip, as rhythmic as
a heartbeat. When you go to your pocket and tease
it out-- yes-- or no-- or maybe-- it says.
This swinging coin is a choice coin of the realm,
a withdrawal from that invisible bank where
fortunes beckon. Watchful at this small helm,
you blithely chart your course, a millionaire.
Thus do you place your intentions at auction,
and I do your bidding. By such faith, arousing
my own sense of servitude, I take instruction,
bending my wishes to its artful dowsing.
If you need to fathom why I am so bent,
know this: I am in your life with its consent.