There was no picture.
Just the number thirteen.
There was a ladder against the house,
And a black cat on the windowsill.
It was the end of the week.
Or was it Saturday?
The man didn’t know:
Because he had just lost with a hand full of spades.
The mirrors in his house were broken,
Probably because he had opened an umbrella in the house.
But the man wouldn’t walk into the house:
He would walk down the street, to a House of Worship.
Superstition had been his religion….
But now he had to find one that would save him.
I wrote this poem…. since today is Friday the 13th.