Once again tis time to pony up and trot out (neigh - without horsing around) an unforgettable day encompassing a series of unfortunate events (so take that Lemony Snicket! - yeah go ahead and picket!).

Wicked bad day poem
originally crafted, designed, engineered...
then alternately titled
for no particular rhyme nor reason:
unwitting courtesy extended
to Doctor Donald (Duck) Dossey  
who coined paraskevidekatriaphobia.

Superstitious severely tested across fineline
doggedly gingerly jinxing luck of mine
August thirteenth nineteen hundred and ninety nine
forever etched in the annals of my personal infamy
as one still sending hair raising shivers down my spine
which following unpleasant details occurred on a street
that branched off kind of like a fork tine
adjacent to one named Woodbine.

Prior to the following awful events
that unfolded aforementioned day
somewhat solemn and gray
I did not consider myself unduly superstitious
nor prone to bouts of triskaidekaphobia/
paraskevidekatriaphobia  no how no way.

Yet that particular Friday
the thirteenth baptized me
in the ****** waters of superstition unequivocally
whence upon waking said particular morning
the search for funereal garb found me
burrowing into a small closet  
while bending on one knee,
and nonchalantly rummaging

for suitable article of clothing to wear
(per the wake/
sitting shiva of William Zison
the octogenarian father in law)
an unbeknownst ill fate
lurked just seconds away
ready to cap cha an innocent prey
as any unseen observer
and/or pet would agree.

Hands rifled and rustled
thru various and sundry
miscellaneous items in one or another box
mostly clothing and other apparel
draped in coat hangers
plus a precariously perched

heavy tin of yarn heavy as rocks
began to teeter from top ledge,
than made a slow inexorable descent
in direct path of thy crown
containing valued mental stocks.

The topmost part of thine skull
felt impact of sharp metallic rim
that left an indentation in soft part of scalp –
more’n an abrasive skim
and bent circular shape

of contrivance filled to the hilt
one law of physics pertaining
to falling object (taught to me)
acquires greater mass
accelerating with velocity and vim.

Upon reflexively yet tentatively
touching raw sore spot
fingertips revealed presence of warm liquid
soon coagulating into a pulpy gordian knot
from sharp lipped impact registering nausea
and vertigo quite a lot
hence sewing crafts managed to stitch
a tattooed laceration forming a ****** clot.

Body writhed with physical torment
as if being only partially alive
whereby waves of blacking
or passing out found me swooning
ready to take a swan dive
nonetheless from Schwenksville
to Penn Valley, I did
(by divine grace) safely drive
whence family members and relatives
once destination reached, the motley crue
began organized car pool arrangements
per heading off to the cemetery,

which caravan formation  
similar to a human bee hive,
yours truly declined to go
communicating persistent distress from mishap
I bowed wowed out, stayed home
and kept company with a dog
(purportedly man’s best friend)
(said pet belonging to a friend
of eldest sister in law),
whose open palmed overtures
of mine did not jive.

An impulse found fingers reaching out
to stroke this unfamiliar animal
supposedly man’s best friend
only to find sharp teeth from canine jaw
clamped down ******* hand
which second ****** injury,
my mother affixed a butterfly bandage
to expedite the injury to mend,
I did immediately tend
while bolts of white hot pain
shot thru lower extremity of palm
radiated upward through forearm
into shoulder did wend.