In the firmament somewhere is supposed to be written the exact condition and circumstance of our lives and our deaths— That is, if you believe. An elderly aunt forbade sweeping the floor at sundown; worse still was shaking the dust out of doors— like waving goodbye to all the luck you didn't even know was sitting in corners and under the coffeetable, disguised as lint tiles and grime (if only you'd taken them to the bank). The dinner plate you turn couterclockwise will prevent your love from running a red light or being hit by a refrigerator truck going past the speed limit. You don't throw salt over your shoulder, but you have a few bags of it left over from last winter, when the walk needed to be de-iced. You've never broken a mirror, though someone nearly choked on a fish bone while eating at your table. Thank goodness there was no need for the Heimlich maneuver or a counter-spell (also unfortunately involving a fish bone. Next time, you vow, you'll only serve fillets, plucked clean of any sharp objects buried in flesh.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.