the room

The room has no choice. Everything that’s spoken in it it absorbs. And it must put up with

the bad flirt, the overly perfumed,
the many murderers of mood—
with whoever chooses to walk in.

If there’s a crowd, one person
is certain to be concealing a sadness,
another will have abandoned a dream,

more from Stephen Dunn’s poem at The New Yorker here.