Corner Seam

The bathroom had mirrors on two walls

and the first morning I turned to spit

and caught myself sideways —

jaw forward, shoulders rolled in,

that posture I only have

when no one's watching.

At the corner where they met,

my face split slightly at the seam.

Two versions, an inch apart.

Neither one looked sure.

I stood there in a hotel robe

that smelled like industrial soap

and looked at both of them.

The conference started at eight.

Pastries. Networking. A keynote

about momentum or disruption

or both.

I missed the opening breakfast.

Just stood at that corner seam

with my travel toothbrush on the sink

and two faces in the mirror,

trying to figure out

which angle was the honest one —

whether I'd been standing wrong

for years

or just here,

in this particular light.