It’s not quite superstition
I know that be throwing spilt salt over my left shoulder
(Twice just to be certain)
Or avoiding ladders or keeping my umbrella closed indoors
I have no hope of changing the course of the future
I surely know that be holding my breath as I speed by a graveyard
Trying to keep the air drenched in vivid mortality from my fragile lungs
I will not be able to drive death from my door
These habits are still a comfort
Life is like riding a roller-coaster in the dark
You cling fearfully to the edges of your seat
Pray to God the restraints don’t snap or the ride derail
And wait for the next stomach-clenching drop to come