Midnight in the garden of superstition,
No luck if it weren’t for bad luck.
One black cat prowls the paths,
Pitching salt across its shoulder.
She carries a basket to harvest the rabbit feet.
Skulls with grins guard the gate.
The fence design swirls with spades.
Under a ladder the four-leaf clovers grow.
Velvet stars streak the evening sky.
Her plans are based on the advice of fortune cookies.
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