If I were superstitious, I’d stay home
today and hide in bed or maybe work,
and I might try to generate a poem,
and I’d be thinking someone is a jerk:
a grouchy person from my past who’d say
(already said) the world is shot and hope
is dead, the earthquake happens Saturday,
and then go home and smoke some kushy dope.

But 13 is a number I adore
and Friday is the best day of the week.
I still believe in truth and not much more.
I look within for most of what I seek.
I may be lucky, certainly I’m here:
As far as I can see, the coast is clear.