BAD LUCK! BAD LUCK!

BAD LUCK! BAD LUCK! 

I watched the old Roman woman

hobble to the empty lot,

left-over spaghetti wrapped

in crumpled pages of today’s

Messaggero newspaper.

Straining to bend, she laid it out

neatly on the graveled dirt,

then toothlessly whistled a call

to dinner, signaling homeless

felines from their alleyways

near Tiburnia Station.

A rush of cats of all colors,

undernourished to the bone,

swarmed toward the old woman’s meal.

All but one, a coal-black cat

that kept a distance away,

meowing pangs of hunger.

I puckered lip sounds, hoping

to catch his eye. “No! Not that one!”

hollered the woman. “Male fortuna!

Bad luck!” she said. “Gatto nero!

Black cat!” Though the others

paw-slapped my hands, I gathered

the red saucy pasta, then

placed it on the wintry ground.

“Don’t let it walk in front of you!”

Male fortuna!” the old woman said again.

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