Hotel Hobbies

Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
 Bell boys checking out the hookers in the bar
 Slug-like fingers trace the star-spangled clouds of cocaine on the mirror
 The short straw took its bow
 The tell tale tocking of the last cigarette
 Marking time in the packet as the whisky sweat
 Lies like discarded armour on an unmade bed
 And a familiar craving is crawling in his head
 And the only sign of life is the ticking of the pen
 Introducing characters to memories like old friends
 Frantic as a cardiograph scratching out the lines
 A fever of confession a catalogue of crime in happy hour
 Do you cry in happy hour, do you hide in happy hour
 The pilgrimage to happy hour
 New shadows tugging at the corner of his eye
 Jostling for attention as the sunlight flares
 Through a curtains tear, shuffling its beams
 As if in nervous anticipation of another day