Meeting destiny

When
he opened the door
I knew what he would say,
almost like his face would open and clouds would drift in and out as words intermingled with white then fade. He had a name like Mike or Jim because his name would not matter in the end; it would escape down the metal ladder that leads to a random NYC alley outlined here, in my writing. He came to see me.
He worked up the courage
to tell me where
it would all end,
and how it would
happen.
He knew I’d
deny it.
He saw the bullet hit.