I’ve read of people who measure light
as it refracts through holes and sprays
patterns on a screen, a probability wave,
the numbers a kind of mathematical Christ.
If you look too close, you find certainty
and stamp the wave flat, condense every choice
into chosen, every possible thought to one voice.
What might be becomes what is, a withered mystery.
Each decision risks our life and our blood.
Each moment can disappoint, these sweaty hands,
this stuffy room, a touch, a kiss, this bland
food. Step up to the wheel and make your bet good.
The steel ball hops and turns, and we catch our breath.
We hope the game is fixed in our favor, not death’s.
Header photograph © Jason D. Ramsey.
Marcus Goodyear lives with his family in the Texas Hill Country where works in communications for a family foundation. He is the author of Barbies at Communion (T. S. Poetry, 2010), and his work has appeared in Books and Culture, 32 poems, and other publications. He also acts in the local community theater and coaches robotics.
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