In the hotel room.

I was cleaning,
you were making
the bed,

and you asked me
if I had any kids.

I shook my head no
and hoped you
would drop it,
we were strangers
on the clock
after all,

but you asked
if I ever would

and I said never.

You said how hard
you tried for kids,

and when you
finally had some,
you wanted to
give him more,

and I said nothing
as the disinfectant
stung my eyes,

as my heart caved
in on itself,

as it dawned on me
for the millionth time

that life is a cruel
gamble;

no one asks
to be born.