Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with prose. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 13:

Dad always said, “thirteen’s my lucky number.”
I say, “I don’t believe in luck.”
Aside from being utter cock-and-bull
(Based on my perception of dice, cards, grading scales and
Cancer)
I find them almost identical…

Dad’s luckless fortune, lackluster prime number
My blessed dispassion for all things chance
His ill-omened charm, enchanted malediction
My consecrated apathy of sacred possibility
To make our own luck, not my own luck, but ours
To trust in no luck, not his luck, but ours

Thirteen times I rolled the dice
Never thought he twice
Thirteen numbers in a suit
By no means give any advice for the
Unfortunate

He and I both agreed today:

You can tell him to pull up his bootstraps all you want,
but if the man’s barefoot, you’re not helping.