“You thought I was somebody you knew? Who? Do I look like somebody? Your husband?”

“No, actually not at all. Although, who knows? I haven’t seen him in a while,” I said.

“Tell me about divorce,” said the salesman. “I been on the other end, of course.”

I was thinking this man had been handsome and agile once, but now he was neither of those and he didn’t know it. He stood with his wide shoes set far apart.

I dripped change into the soda machine.

“Some cases,” the salesman said, “it’s divorce. Mine, it was burglary. It was hit the road, Jack, and don’t even take your p.j.’s. I had to start over at thirty-one, with nothing. Meantime, she’s doing the town. I know all women aren’t that way, but I didn’t for a while. She’s got every barkeep in every bar in Hagerstown knowing her by name—and I mean first name.”

“No longer bitter?” I said.

My pink can of soda chunked down into the PULL HERE bin.

“Everybody says it, but it’s my kid I feel worst about. Maybe he don’t need a father, but he’s got that for a mother.”

“What’ll you have?” I said.

“You’re buying? In that case, root beer.”

“How long you been here?” the salesman asked. He sat on the corner of my bed.

“Only an hour or so.”

“You get lonely on the road,” he said. “Get a load of me. Did that sound like a come-on or what? ‘You get lonely on the road. . . .’ ”

He had a strong jaw and his hair was neatly combed. People had perhaps told this man he looked like a hefty young version of Dan Rather.

“Were you an outfielder?” I asked him.

“My ring,” he said and glanced at it. “Naw, shortstop. Batted—damn, I almost forgot. Fifth, actually.” He was grinning and trying not to. “Are you a fan?”

“No,” I said. “My husband was, a little.”

“He’s where?” the salesman asked.

I shrugged and didn’t answer.

He said, “All I meant was I get lonesome on the road, so I go into these ladies’ rooms. . . .” He shook his head. “I wind up talking to a woman in her room. It doesn’t mean anything. The truth is, I’m still very tight with my ex-wife.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I had a reason for inviting you in, but it wasn’t sex.”

He seemed confused. “It wasn’t? Or not right away, you mean. Not yet, you’re saying.”

“Not ever at all. I wanted you to listen to something. I could read it, and then you could tell me whether or not your attention starts to flag.”

“All right, sure,” the salesman said.

I opened my laptop machine and brought the long poem up on the screen.

I said, “Just let me know if your mind wanders, O.K.?”