It’s Friday the 13th and I wonder
how the superstition got started.
I’d always thought it was because
there were thirteen diners at the
Last Supper but I recently saw a
documentary about the Knights
Templar according to which
King Philip of France mounted
a ruthlessly efficient surprise
attack on the Templars
and tortured them until they
confessed they were heretics,
gnostics. That happened on
a Friday the 13th in the 14th
century, and ever since it’s been
an unlucky day to be caught
in a storm or shoplifting or in bed
with a person other than your mate
or just crossing the street before
looking both ways in New York,
where, from one point of view,
it’s always Friday the 13th
— 2 / 13 / 98 [from The Daily Mirror, 2000]