Hotel Room

Hotel room beds are like prostitutes:
Every night a different man, woman, or child
spends hundreds of bucks to have the best night
of their lives when they are away
from their husbands and wives.

Hotel rooms are like homes away from home:
A bed, a tv, a broken remote control,
internet that doesn't work,
and an ill-equipped bathroom
with a toilet that only flushes once
every five times and only if you jiggle
the handle just right and force the lid
down while standing on one knee
bent over and whispering lines out
of the Bible that can be found in the
bedside table but is rarely ever used.

Hotels are like one night stands:
there forever if you want to go back
but rarely as good as the first time
because someone else has been there
after you but before you this time
and has defiled the best parts and stolen
something that made it so much more
the first time around when the night
was the best and the memory
even better because the memory
is of a time before that middle-aged man
came and let loose his terror on what
was once a decent place but now
is just that memory of a one-night stand.

This city is asleep but stay awake
avoiding the siren call of the prostitute
as I roam the corridors of my temporary home
before returning for a one night stand in this hell
of a place that I once loved before I altogether realized
I'm just here for the night, anyway.