A dullness to the morning
Heavy in my thirteen-and-a-half stone
Writing in my hotel bedroom
Lost from my place called home
I decide to take cooked breakfast
To try to get back in the zone
It only costs five pounds extra
I have a window of my own
The railway line is fenced off
The stairwell filled with chrome
The silver birch leaves are limp
The television is the usual drone
The waitress is simply joyful
With the croissants, with the scone
The tradesman is way less happy
Apologising, on his mobile phone
These words are out of context
Should they make it to the tome
Would they be better off discarded
Or cut right back, made bare to the bone
