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