Voice on the Bench

a poem from my book Luck`s a Liar

Belgrade’s autumn, 2014,
the park smells of wet leaves and diesel fumes,
me slumped on a bench,
cigarette pinched between knuckles,
its smoke curling like a lie I told myself.
An old man drops beside me,
face carved like weathered oak,
eyes sharp as a needle’s point.
He smells of damp wool and time,
his coat frayed at the cuffs.

“You write, don’t you?” he says,
voice low, rasping,
like he’s dragged it from the city’s gutters.
“Writers are prophets, kid, seeing tomorrow’s muck.”
I nod, half-listening,
his words heavy,
like stones I can’t carry.

We talk of ink,
of nights spent scratching truths,
of the world’s cold shrug.
His laugh splits the air,
dry as November frost.

A street fiddle’s note snaps sharp,
and I turn,
squinting into the sound.

I look back -
he’s gone.
No shuffle, no trace,
just the bench,
cold and empty,
the cigarette’s ember fading in my hand.
I remember that moment,
his voice a scar I didn’t earn,
etched deep in my skull.

The park hums,
pigeons scuttle through leaves,
the city’s pulse doesn’t give a damn.
I stand,
flick the butt into the dirt,
and walk,
his words lodged tight,
prophets be damned,
I’m still here,
scratching my own tomorrow.