wrong room

I keep ending up in the wrong room.

Not metaphorically.

Actually.

Standing there too long.

Holding something I didn’t bring.

Everyone else is already arranged.

It’s my city.

I know the streets, the shortcuts, the bathrooms that lock.

Still I’m always early or late or misfiled.

Always hovering near the door.

Someone says my nae and means someone else.

I stay anyway.

I learn the layout.

I don’t touch anything that looks important.

Every room feels rented.

Every welcome conditional.

I don’t leave because nothing’s wrong.

I don’t belong because nothing’s wrong.