Roughly a quarter of suicides happen away from home, often  
in hotel rooms. They are “lethal locations.” People who work  
at hotels know this, but don’t talk about it. It’s not  
the sort of thing one advertises, but they think about it  
when going into a room, in that bit of time the corner  
of the bed and pile of sheets takes to resolve itself.  
And now that I know this, what? Trivia night? Game show?  
Easy as one two three, and the morning new and other,  
and we have to approach it, speaking through it  
like a 19^th century clairvoyant, tables hovering, the wait staff  
growing concerned. But it’s real, too. You’re at dinner  
with three other people, so there are four versions of you:  
the you you know, and then a you for each of the others. It’s the residue  
of fog on the ponds and in the hollows, saying, “You’ve always belonged.” 

* 

The hotel treadmills are in a row, in front of windows  
beneath four televisions: CNN reporting  
on the war in Ukraine, Wheel of Fortune, ESPN sports talk,  
and an episode of The Dukes of Hazard. I have to choose.  
Or I could watch one while listening to another. The most  
common dream in America is “teeth falling out.”  
Do you want an answer you like, or a real answer? I should pick “O.” 
The answer is FANCY MEETING YOU HERE. I’m going  
through all my dreams, counting teeth. The counter- 
attack is severe. The hospital’s being evacuated,  
and Boss Hogg is planning on crushing Bo’s and Luke’s car.  
I’ve also been bereft. And I’ve not known what to do, or if knowing  
would’ve helped. It’s been luck, mostly. The way  
we call it luck. Or taking a different way home one day.