Magic Poet

Says the Magic 8 Ball to the young boy

“My reply is no.”

So

He shakes it again.

But he gets the same answer.

The boy though gets numbers,

And knows that the odds of him getting that answer again

Are highly unlikely

So

He shakes.

And the Magic 8 Ball sighs and says “Yes.”

The next day

The boy tells his crush at recess that he likes her.

And she does not feel the same way.

And the boy walks home

Wearing sadness like a first-day-of-school outfit.

Openly

Wishing he had listened to the 8 Ball the first time.

Says the Magic 8 Ball to the adolescent boy

“Don’t count on it.”

But the boy WAS counting on it.

So

He shakes it.

But he gets the same answer.


The boy though is an optimist.

So he packs his bags

And moves west.

Hoping to replace old problems with fresh faces.

The problems though live inside him.

So they greet him at the terminal.

Hand him back his baggage.

And the boy is reminded

That pain travels at the speed of sound barrier.

Crying

As he shatters silently.

Says the Magic 8 Ball to the young man

“I’m sorry.

Outlook not so good.”

But the young man figured as much,

He is a pessimist after all.

But he is also a lonely pessimist.

So he settles

Down to shouting matches and deafening silences,

That scream symphonies

To anyone who is listening.

But his friends only seem to speak in "I told you so."

And they did.

Often.

So now he’s alone again.

Says the Magic 8 Ball to the young man.

“You’re a mess.

Better not tell you now.”

And the young man hears the train wreck approaching,

But he was expecting it.

His agony does make a habit of repeating itself.

And the boy,

Now young adult,

Has seen this act before

So he waits anxiously

For the now too familiar feeling.

Says the Magic 8 Ball

To the me

On the bathroom floor.

“I am a children’s toy,

Not a therapist.

And I love you kid,

But you need medicine I can’t give you.”

And the boy is now a man

But the magic is missing.

I mean

The joy missed it’s cue again.

I mean

He reached his hand into the hat of happiness

And pulled out a diagnosis.

I mean

The answers don’t make sense anymore.

And this time

It’s the man who’s shaking,

Trying desperately

To keep the facade dam from fracturing.

But depression doesn’t give a shit if you prepared for the storm.

Just reminds you that if you survive this one,

There’s a hurricane with your name on it.

And the man is shaking something in his hand.

But it’s not the 8 Ball

It’s a prescription.

And he’s wondering what dosage

Would magic trick his damaged into vanished?

Into gone boy.

Into obituary sensation.

Says the Magic 8 Ball to the poet.

“Dammit hold on…

Hold on…

Don’t leave before the best part.

Just hold on. “

But the man doesn’t believe in magic anymore.

Is not sure he ever did.

Says the Magic 8 Ball to the broken poet

"You don’t need me.

You have always been your own Houdini

Charming agony into masterpiece.

Magicking metaphor into healing,

A living allegory for blessing.

You are the answer to someone’s empty.

They are dying for your dazzle.

And Hogwart’s got nothing

On the goblet of fire on your tongue

You were made to shake the world.

Not some plastic genie

That can only tell you things you already know.

Can’t you see it?

Just staying alive is the greatest magic."

Says the magic boy to the the page.

"There are days I don’t want to be.

But I am still here.

And now for my next trick…"