Tuesday 22 July 2008

101, and superstitious tendencies.



The Black Cat Imparts Some Luck

It was just a cat. Being, as it was, bereft
of ownership in immediate proximity
it did not have a name, beautiful though
it was. The cat was all black without a whisper
of another colour in any of its fur. This was,
of course, a rarity noted by its owners
who had spent hours grooming, hunting
for some all-feared glimmer of white or pink.

I was not to know this, as the just-a-cat
ambled over the quiet road, shrugging
its shining shoulders with every step, the weight
of it rolling this way and that way, its black-skinned feet
padding firmly on the ground. I couldn't help but watch,
enthralled by the beauty of its everydayness
and the wonder of the universe—which
it looked like, funnily enough, black as it was.

The black cat saw me watching with
its great green eyes and, without any sort of fear
crossed in front of me, leaving, with each pad of its feet,
the tiniest piece of luck. I walked on my way, gathering
the pieces nonchalantly by crossing its path. I didn't trip
once, then, until the last of it wore off precisely
one week later when I fell with some force onto my elbow.
I don't hold that against anyone:

Nothing lasts forever, I just wish
I'd used the luck better, while I had it.



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