Doom, Not Richards

Coffee guy tries to hand me
a pocket knife with my bagel.
Slightly rusted green handle.
Characters carved into it.
Runes to half awake eyes.
Politely refused.

Earlier on the train,
this little old lady
who I talk to some mornings
out of nowhere attempts
through several layers of jackets
to wrap her arms around me.

I don’t have a heart to say
that their sympathy is wasted.
How I have an arch enemy
but he has no idea he is
Which just makes me the bad guy
in my own story.