The ceiling is leaking and the tea is too cold

It's the middle of the night,
I'm not sure what time exactly because
I haven't kept time or kept up in a while.
This bed is yet another strange bed
I have gotten used to waking up in.

Making friends with silent lobbies
and leaning on indifferent walls has
its own nuances, though.
I had never before wondered if the
bell boy sleeps at night when the guests do,
though his eyes droop under the weight of sleep too.
Or if the silent gardener who is barely spoken to,
misses having a workplace romance.

There is sameness in strangeness.
The people I meet, they're all weary.
They don't want me to know but their words let it show
that they've hedged on what tomorrow might bring.
Their lives are consumed by mere habits,
and passion is just another thing they read about
and marvel at, between their forced highs.

They're all home but seldom at home,
and if given a choice, they would all rather be
elsewhere.

Elsewhere, that promised land.
Where roots run deep,
Where homes stand,
Where there is comfort in a lover's hand.

This place, this strange place,
is strange to everyone.
The bell boy, the gardener, the smiling musician,
they would all rather be elsewhere.

Years ago, a writer told me through the hazy air
of an afternoon, heady with the pretense of art,
"why do we even need roots?"
I gleefully agreed.
After we said our goodbyes, he went home
and wrote about his charming wife and the dog.
I read it much later on a humid night
in a smoky hotel room.

I couldn't help but feel betrayed.