there untouched; its dust-lined cracks
in need of a good shaking. I cradle
the hard plastic sphere in my hand
like an infant’s skull. Its smooth black
surface seems to glide along my oily palm.
I am not superstitious, but I can’t help
but wonder if this cheap toy could really
offer me a porthole glimpse into the future?
I stare deep into the vatic blue ink cloud,
as the twenty-sided die swirls around
inside. “Will she leave me?” I whisper
to this wordless confidant, all while tilting
the Magic 8-Ball onto its paint-stenciled
top. But it says nothing, the die is stuck
and, in that moment, the answer is forever
lost to a dark haze of uncertainty.
[+]
John Roth is a writer from Ohio whose poems
have most recently appeared,or are still forthcoming,
in The Orange Room Review, Red Fez, and
The Eunoia Review, among a few others. He only
writes when he feels like it and doesn't
when he probably should.
