9:01 and One Second (Curse Poem)

All I was doing
was walking,
earbuds in
and I guess you have
somewhere better to be,
I guess it matters whether
you are there at 9:01
or 9:01 and one second.
So I hope the turnstile hits your back
as you exit it.
And I hope later,
in the bathroom,
you find a vivid, blue bruise,
that turns a deathly black over the day.
I hope that when you reach the top of the stairs
your sneaker catches the lip,
and you end up kissing the gum-stained concrete.
I hope you can't ever wash away that taste,
the taste of cutting me off
in front of the turnstile.