00111111

This letter is an unbreakable spell.
It is coded and the key is in your door.

It is written in the stars,
Carved in the tree that shades your grave.

It is the lucky number 7.

Cool and calm,
Yet reddens your face.

It is the picnic day
The dog sat in the potato salad.

It is the angel who breaks down your car
To remove you from the impending crash.

It is love you never had.
It is the little boy who got no attention
And learned to need nothing at all,
And taught everyone he touched
Not to expect much.

It is a kiss, a promise, a warning.

It is time travel and you discover it.
You are so unworthy of this gift,
Groundhog Daying yourself to death
In your bourbon-scented coma of a life.