not your grandma’s artifact

The problem with magical artifacts these days

is that they’ve learned to go incognito. 

Gone the days of:

 ancient scripts in unknown languages, 

stones that glow like lanterns, 

ominously breathing statues, 

beautiful glittering fairies trapped in bottles.

This trap was inevitable, 

is what I’m saying.

Plastic dice. 

Glossy cards with corners 

barely crinkled from use.

Bright colors splashed 

across a cardboard surface, 

tiny squares and 

cheap figurines. 

Let’s take a trip!

the box offered so 

excitedly, 

and I was so bored 

with this same house,

these little windows 

looking out onto the 

same little street, 

the same people 

walking their dogs 

every evening

at the same time.

How can you blame me 

for being seduced by 

a bubblegum pink road 

and a ribbon of 

sapphire blue sky, 

the tiny hot air balloon 

sedate beneath my fingers, 

unmenacing? 

This is no Jumanji, 

no soul-stealing book, 

no demon-summoning

spirit board, but just…

Me, here, 

and then me, there, 

in one roll of dice 

that felt everyday, 

not exhilarating.

Anyone could have 

fallen for it, 

especially 

on a rainy day

like this.