The woman on the treadmill next to me
watches conspiracy videos on her phone.
I pretend she is a version of my mother
who died in childbirth.
She laughs
a warm apple laugh.
You never know
who has a woodchipper
where a heart should be,
or what kind of day
someone else is having.
It’s just the two of us
(her laughing, me
watching her laugh).
Sometimes, on the treadmill,
I pretend I’m marching toward Hell.