Was a Friday

When he was born

It was the age he found he was gay

And sometimes his sister would mourn

In tumbling handfuls that she would never say

To his face about the day he turned thirteen.

Was a Tuesday

When his mother died

It had been time for it anyway

He had almost taken her in labor, but had been too polite

Straining in the hospital for the better part of a day

And the day was thirteen.

Was a Wednesday

A month after his mother's death

That he decided he'd make his own way

And quickly got involved with meth

Snorting the hours away

On that first day it was thirteen.

Was a Monday

At a local café downtown

Where he first learned feelings could sway

And batted eyes at someone accustomed to frowns

The bill that day was thirteen.

Was a Wednesday

When he decided to stop the drugs

Because life is more that someone can say

So short, so brutal, so thug

Besides he'd already found a better way to make his day

Screwed over a group of thirteen.

Was a Sunday

When he moved to New York

With the one from the café, everything was okay

Wedding bells were ringing, and the pop of a champagne cork

Bought a room in an apartment looking across Upper Bay

And the number on the door said thirteen.

Was a Thursday

When their first foster child arrived at the door

And when his career was really making its way

When old acquaintances shook him to the core

Because life does as it pleases, and as it may

Just show up as men in a group of thirteen.

Was a Saturday

When life was already passing by

And he sat in the bed where the dying lay

White sheets, sunlight, beep beep, he would die

Told me that his favorite thing to say

Was that his favorite number was thirteen.