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.


5 thoughts on “Thirteen

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