Superstitions always seemed to facinate me. I remember Adam told me something about how the romans used to avoid battles just from odd patterns in the birds flight. Being stationed for three years now many other pleas for the supernatural have stuck around with me.

One of these flashed through my mind momentarily when smoking my cigar with my comrades. I get handed a lit match, and I hold the flame to the bud of my cigar. As soon as I could inhale another soldier, Homer, reaches over for the lit match. I was told entering the army to never light three cigarettes with one match, and like a wave retreating from the sea this thought in my head ebbs away.

“These superstitions are meaningless anyway.”

Or so I wish could be true.

Soon a sniper drew

And i solitarily knew

When I handed Homer that match,

I put the red dot on his chest.