Something didn’t feel right about its approach.
I don’t like that others fear it on
tippy-toes when it comes up, while roulette
players reach to cover its black space in antithetical hopes of good fortune.
As a biker, I’m amused that an
infamous ‘bad boys’ biker club lays claim to and brandishes it and to its
juxtaposed “31.”
On its odd-as-in-funny face, it’s
been cast to represent “M,” midway through our alphabet and whose very
reputation can be construed to mean “marijuana.”
Thirteen is tattooed on my calendar
and life again and again this year.
13
A baker’s dozen, harmless as one of
its doughnuts.
I’m not superstitious. I confess to
calendar dread of thirteen, different than superstition or so I tell myself.
There are unavoidable, inescapable collisions
of health and finance in my 2013.
That 2013’s early September
marks my sixtieth birthday, there are wistful farewells to youth's bygone days. There’s increased,
unwelcome frequency of misspent thought about my mortality that shadow boxes with
my moods bank, as annoying and real as the fly you can’t seem to avoid or swat.
Should I die before December 31st,
thirteen will necessarily be engraved on my headstone sunk into the limestone
and clay of a hilly cemetery in central Kentucky
Thirteen will will have beaten me,
ad infinitum and for all to see, just as it's the odds-on favorite to make losers of roulette
bettors.
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Let's beat 13 .
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