I am not superstitious.
Don’t go for any of that
Open the umbrella
before I go outdoors,
wife all the while tisking.
Pick up black cats,
scratch their chins.
Walk under ladders.
What do I care?
Broke a mirror, not on purpose.
Seven years bad luck?
I proved it wrong.
Maybe the seven year itch, though.
Yes, seven’s about right,
and I sure have the itch,
and that could be bad luck.
Ahhh….makes me ponder.
No…only a fool could be so gullible.
Wake up, fool, you’re in charge, aren’t you?
Put your confident smirk back on.
And so, I go about believing
the helmsman’s in control. But.
There’s a little niggling thing
that pick pick picks away
at the mica-like layers of my built up shell.
As if it had a fetish for peeling off scabs.
Am I not like the Gollum-Sméagol in one mind?
Under the scabs, the former finds fresh evidence
of some of my cultivated peculiarities.
How I have an aversion to making plans
for some future date,
because it’s bad luck.
This is a thing I cannot shake,
a quality of a social pariah.
How, when at a party,
I choose the strategic position
in the corner, closest to the exit.
How, when out and about, I always
keep the gas tank filled, every day or two.
You never know when you’ll have to go
to the hospital in the middle of the night,
or drive two hundred miles to
save someone from themselves.
I was taught to always have on clean underwear,
and to make sure it isn’t on backwards. Hospital again.
Once I dug a grave for my old black cat,
second-guessing the almighty.
Providentially, the cat received divine intervention.
Ran about like a five year old, climbed a tree,
found the hole I dug, and pissed in it.
Superstitions don’t always pan out,
but some are good to have.