Travel. Lodge.

I woke up in Manchester
Dry of mouth in the Travel Lodge
Someone’s fist had marked the toilet door
And the wall near the entrance to my room.
Not me, of course.
I drank pints of ale in the bar last night
Whilst I read the Guardian, fighting off sleep.
Posing. Mostly to myself!
Somehow I slough off the gag and blindfold
And make some human contact.
Once I’m away from home
I start to revert to who I am
Or who I used to be.
Sometimes I miss me.