Magic Eightball

by Matthew Dickman

Cheaper than therapy and you can smoke pot,
flip the eight-ball around,
ask your question.
Will I win the lottery?
Will I become famous?
You know, the really big Geo-Political questions
like will I ever see Berlin in the winter?
Will I walk below the Eiffel Tower in a bow tie?
And the magic eight-ball
will answer you right away, without
looking inquisitive or saying “hmm, that’s interesting.
let’s talk about your childhood”
the glowing pyramid will float to the top
and say yes, it’s likely, maybe, no, not likely.
I like sitting in my room with some candles lit,
the eight-ball in my lap like a crystal ball.
Do I make people suffer? Perhaps, it says.
Have I failed? Is my life dishonest?
When I pushed her down onto the bed
were we making love or was it, like she said
later, something awful? Of course.
You ask and it answers
like the gas pedal on a Mustang.
You push down and the car speeds forward
into your future, the one
you’re traveling so quickly to meet,
the one just beyond the next rest stop,
the next exit where the golden arches of Macdonald’s
glow like the Arch de Triumph,
two french fries from heaven
bending like a wave
over the happy meals and big macs.
You are heading toward your destiny, toward the city
of your birth and death
where a mother and father are waiting,
where love is coming up
from the fields like wild flowers
which you will pull from the earth
and carry with you
the rest of your life. Picking each petal
and asking over and over: does she, does she not.

 

• Read “Fountain” by Matthew Dickman.
• For more poems, click here.