Say "rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" on the first of every month for luck,
or hold a buttercup under your chin.
If it reflects back yellow, you like butter.
Salt over the shoulder we brought to the table from Bugs Bunny,
and the fantasy that stale pepper from a tin could make you sneeze.
A bruise from a pinch could bring on cancer,
and dandelions gone to seed, then blown apart
could carry a wish to completion.
The first robin seen in spring had the same magic ability
as the first star each night, to grand any desire.
I never saw shooting stars until I laid among the rocks at Cragsmoor,
far from the expressway, the malls and international airports.
Over Ellenville, perched at the edge of the Borscht Belt,
faded to a TV test pattern, all that was left there were the stars
shooting like marbles across the play yard of the night sky.
An occasional plane below teetered into the landing field
where LBJ once landed, civil rights in his left pocket.
Blueberries at Sam's Point, sweet stars of June,
fenced in for safety now, on posted lands surrounding town,
bad luck no rabbit triplets can dislodge.