No Vacancies

Each morning is a Hotel.  

Neon-signs chatter an  
Electronic pulse of locusts, lost.  
 
Curve of signatures capture  
Bends and semi-circles of the day.    
 
In the foyer, crowds of clothes as  
Skeins of colourful skins in a washing machine.  
Strings of strangers,  
Balanced in eternal lifts.  
 
We fall into the day as the  
Snow in a shaken globe settling,  
Fear is the guts of our abattoir  
Turning breath to blood.  
  
Luggage left outside rooms  
Will find a way, stealthily sway,  
Rest on chairs and television screens.  
 
Leave affairs on the stairs  
Where guilt can’t crawl,  
Climb into bed with your previous lovers  
Dim lights to near darkness and pray.  
 
Each evening is a Hotel and please,  
Leave the sign emblazoned on my door:  
Do Not Disturb.