There is always,
in every dive and bus bench
and street corner and bar-stool and bank line-up
some shifty gent with cracking skin, thick glasses, scars or scabs,
who mutters curses under his breath to no one,
I am the chosen one
who soaks up the confessions of the lonely and lost and forgotten.
One of these days. I’ll witness a death. I just know it.
Why do bad things always happen to me?