CCXLIV - The Hotel

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With another visit to The Harbour City this week, a reflection on the dubious pleasures of hotels.
I much prefer rhyming poetry. This hybrid is the furthest I get away from it
but it seemed to reflect the staccato nature of hotel life, for those on the road.
A tedium not usually seen by dewy-eyed tourists.

The Hotel

Sterile places.
Vacant faces.
Foyer spaces .
Fully devoid of any affection.

Disconnection.
Disinfection.
Introspection.
Sigmund Freud
Could be employed
Full time basis.
Manual erection,
Endless cases.
Cold embraces.
Lack of graces.

Life in bags.
Night-time drags.
Past the panes,
The city races
And life remains.
The sounds of cars,
The hoot of trains,
But not of faces;
Contained but very much alone.
Room service that comes,
By the phone,
Jars
And leaves its traces
Of our needs, unmet
By mini-bars.

Showers you can’t fit in,
Seats you cannot sit in,
Little blocks of soap.
One blanket, polyester.
The air-conditioner’s dead,
A small and lumpy bed.
Sleep’s a forlorn hope.
The TV shows are a rehashing
Of drama, crime and sex molesters.
The bed will cross the floor
If you lean against the wall.
Clock displays are flashing,
If they even work at all

Noisy plumbing
In the night
From neighbours
And the water.
From the calls,
Through the walls,
Someone’s delight
Really might
Be a little shorter.
Or more quiet.

Fitful sleep
With little rest.
Up and dressed
In workplace best
Fed and keen to go.
Last inspection,
Pack the bags,
Check the room,
Take the lift,
Cross the void,
Past the waiting
Anxious eyes.
If you’re wise.
Time to check out
Then to step out
With no adieu.

Into the sun.
Or the rain

Either will do.
And be enjoyed.

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© 2011 J Cosmo Newbery

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