A Hotel Near Paddington

You are alone, you are alone, you are alone,
the groan of the District Line tube train outside
my window and below, close to the surface,
a metal snake, its belly full of lonely people going home.

I sit on my bed, thin white sheets like flattened
prawn crackers; the TV on for company, the alarm
set early, the passing of happy voices in the corridor,
slurred by drunk and think walls. My room is small,

a box filled with old furniture, the cream walls hung
with four pictures: still life flowers in the sour seasons:
spring, summer, autumn, winter; all year long
I am alone, I am alone, I am alone.