Thirteenth Comes to Town

On Friday morn in Marlowe town
the sky hung dull and thin,
and Mrs. Greeley crossed herself
before she ventured in.
“The date is wrong,” the baker said,
and would not meet her eyes—
for someone chalked upon the board:
The thirteenth never lies.

Young Eli Pike just laughed it off
and kicked a stone along.
“I’ve worked six Fridays just like this—
what makes this one so wrong?”
He tipped his cap to nervous folk
who hurried past the square;
but every clock he passed that day
seemed slow to get him there.

At noon the ladder slipped its wall—
no harm, but still it fell.
At one the church bell skipped a beat
and gave a crooked knell.
By three the black cat crossed his path
and paused, as if to say
You’re partway in, you might as well
see through the rest of day.

Now Eli had a list of chores:
a fence to mend by night,
a widow’s lamp to set aright,
a roof to hammer tight.
Yet every nail he drove that day
bent sideways in the wood,
as though the world had shifted half
an inch where Eli stood.

By dusk he reached the widow’s gate,
his patience wearing thin.
“You’ve come despite the date,” she said.
“Well—yes,” he answered, “and?”
She smiled the way old women do
who’ve watched long years unfold:
“The day’s as good as any day
for hearts that won’t be told.”

Inside, her lamp burned soft and plain;
no shadows lunged or grew.
The roof held firm above the rain;
the sky cleared clean and blue.
Young Eli laughed—a quieter laugh—
and tipped his cap once more.
“Seems thirteen’s just a number, ma’am,
like twelve or fourteen—sure.”

So when he walked through Marlowe town
beneath the rising stars,
the clocks kept time, the cats kept cats,
the world kept all its parts.
And folks who feared the thirteenth day
slept sounder than they knew—
while Eli Pike, with dusty boots,
worked Fridays through and through.