No. 13

They are onto us so let’s hide away
Inside hidden fox-holed motel floors
Intentionally mislabeled as room 14’s
We can take respite inside conch shells
And spiraling sunflower inflorescence
There’s a theomachy being waged
Between logic and the imaginary
They march infantries of symmetry
Illuminated by torch lit superstition
Mandating even numbered divisibility

They say they want to do away with you
They malign you as the Devil’s number
They ridicule you and degrade your sum
They’ve quit naming building levels by you
They banish you like black hue cat fur
Then stake paths under ladders as taboo
They impugn you, chide you as a betrayer
But even if they refuse to utter your name
We know you are calculating and implicit
There is no way to longevity and fortune

Without counting the number thirteen