Room 114

The ceiling was the bumpy kind —

every motel, every time,

like someone made that decision once and it stuck.

I was flat on my back at eleven-thirty

when the argument started through the wall.

Muffled, mostly — shapes of voices, not words —

except for one word, which came through clean

and clear and loud, which was my name.

Or a name that sounds like mine.

I lay there waiting to hear it again.

I heard a door, maybe. A chair scraped back.

But not the name. Just once. Then low voices

going on about something, then quiet.

I turned the television on and watched a man

explain tomorrow's weather in a city

I have no plans to visit. Sunny. High of 79.

I thought: there's someone next door

who knows a person with my name

who maybe did something they're being blamed for

right now, through a wall I'm also touching.

I turned the television off.

The ceiling was the same.

I lay there for a long time after

being very careful not to move.