That between hotel rooms
doorway, loop hole
in my story, rarely used,
opens questions 

to the last fading
balcony light. Is it
one door or two? If one,
does it lock 

on both sides? If on
only one, who chooses who 

gets to hold the key?
Would it be you? Would it be me?
Would it be the concierge
deciding if it’s a good night 

for matchmaking? Do we fit
his image of accidental lovers,
or would he be wicked
in his plotting domestic traveling 

disturbance? Or perhaps he just wants
to see what could happen—lets it drop 

into the can
without remembering if
he secured us in or out,
or not at all.