The black cat imparts some luck

It was just a cat. Being, as it was, bereft

of ownership in immediate proximity
it did not have a name, beautiful though
it was. This cat was all black with no whisper
of colour in any of its fur. This was a rarity
noted by its owners who had spent hours grooming,
hunting for some all-feared glimmer of white.

I was not to know this, as the just-a-cat
ambled over the quiet road, shrugging
its shining shoulders with every step, the weight
of it rolling this way and that way, its black-skinned feet
padding firmly on the ground. I couldn't help but watch,
enthralled by its everydayness and the wonder of the universe—which
it looked like, funnily enough, black as it was.

The black cat saw me watching with
its great green eyes and crossed in front of me. I walked
on my way, crossing its still-warm path. I didn't trip once,
then, until the last bits of luck wore off,
precisely one week later when my lace
worked its way undone and I fell, quite hard,
on my knee. I don't hold that against anyone.

Nothing lasts forever. I just wish
I'd used the luck better, while I had it.