what travels through plaster

My palm flat on the wall.

I'm not supposed to be listening.

He's yelling through the plaster—

some debt, some broken promise,

a woman's name

I don't know how to carry.

Then his voice cracks.

Not cracks down into tears.

Cracks sideways into something that sounds like

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry

but means

why do I have to be the one who says it,

why am I the one who becomes

the kind of man who yells apologies

at one in the morning.

The wall is cool under my palm.

I can feel the texture,

the small grit of it,

and maybe his voice vibrating through

or maybe that's just me

pretending the wall is telling me secrets

it wasn't meant to keep.

I don't move my hand.