My wrinkled fingers reach in to my bag.
I open my silver pocket mirror.
A weathered face is now staring at me.
Just like my facade, the mirror just cracked.
Great. Seven more years of worsening luck.

I put away my family heirloom.
Reaching for my cane, I get off my bed.
In the dresser mirror, I see sagging skin.
I hurl my new crutch, breaking the mirror.
Great. Another seven years of bad luck.

Two mirrors, one cane and I am broken.
I hobble my way to my vintage car.
A red, nineteen eighty two Ford Mustang.
I trip and break off the rear view mirror.
Great. Three mirrors equals twenty one years.

I back out my car, missing a black cat.
Like me, I hope that black cat was neutered.
As my superstitions could multiply.
Forty one years, with twenty one to go.
Without bad luck, I’d have none at all.