He looked like Dr. John 
the Night Tripper. 
He was speaking to a man 
who wasn’t listening, who just 
kept reading the newspaper 
& drinking his coffee. 
The doppelganger liked hearing 
himself talk. Hung over, 
I was listening. The coffee 
had chicory in it. I liked it.  
 
A store bought rabbit’s foot 
ain’t no real juju on a key chain.
Tourists don’t know shit.  
Rabbits & the dead 
are neighbors, you know 
& witches can turn themselves 
into rabbits. Any fool knows 
if you kills a rabbit 
in a graveyard at night 
& you chops the rabbit’s left foot off 
& you keeps it in your pocket 
you gets good luck. 
& when a rabbit is kilt 
on a full moon on a Friday the 13th 
by a cross-eyed man 
a hoodoo rabbit’s foot 
gets you real good luck 
when good luck is impossible to come by.
 
I hadn’t done the math until then—
one rabbit’s foot equaled 
one dead rabbit. I’ve never owned one.
That’s some rabbit’s good luck.
Then again, I thought, 
there’s no shortage of rabbits 
& I hoped they ate the meat 
& used the pelts. 
I read in an inflight magazine 
that hasenpfeffer cooked slowly 
in burgundy wine is very tasty. 
It didn’t occur to me 
until I sobered up 
how unaware I was, how lucky.
                        

Our parents are happy to see my sister.
Thanks for the pretty flowers, Mom said.
How’s it going? Dad asked.
 
Can’t complain, my sister replied,
Things are good at work.
How are things in heaven?
 
Mom answered, Send more prayers; 
you can never have too many prayers. 
Save your knees, Dad chuckled. 

That’s funny, Dad, I said.  
I hope you & Mom are each happy 
being different people now,

in different bodies, in different families, 
in different parts of the world.
Happy Trails, until we meet again. 
 
My sister started laughing,

I think they would rather 
hang out with Jesus & the angels.
I laughed too, Yeah, who wouldn’t?
                        

I wrote this in a letter
that I didn’t mail to you,
 
“These June apples 
on the ground in the yard
look like green golf balls.”
 
& before I knew it, 
I had dropped my pen, 
pulled my putter & sunk 
a bushel of birdie putts. 
 
I don’t know what gets into me.
 
Did I tell you about the plum tree?   
The fruit the size of meat balls.