The poem is entitled Away From Home, by Carol Ann Duffy, and I cant find a decent analysis online anywhere. Any insight is very much appreciated

Somewhere someone will always be leaving open
a curtain, as you pass up the dark mild street,
uncertain, on your way to the lodgings

You put down your case, and a blurred longing
sharpens like a headache. A woman carries
a steamy bowl into the room- a red room-
talking to no one, the pleasant and yawning man
who comes in behind her and kisses her palms.
Miles away, you go on, strumming the privet.

The train unzips the landscape, sheds fields
and hedges. On the outskirts of town, the first houses
deal you their bright cards. The Queen of Hearts. A kitchen.

A suburban king counting his money. Jacks.
Behind the back-to-backs, a bruised industrial sky
blackens, and fills with cooking smells, and rains.

Treacherous puddles lead to the Railway Hotel. No bar
till 7 pm. At the first drink, a haunted jukebox
switches itself on, reminds you, reminds you, reminds you.

Anonymous night. Something wrong. The bedside lamp
absent. Different air. Against the hazarded wall
a door starts faintly to be drawn.

You mime your way ineptly to a switch,
turn to a single room with a shower,
an empty flask, a half-drunk glass of wine.

Calm yourself. By dawn you will have slept again
and gone. You have a ticket for the plane.
Check it. The flight number. Your home address. Your name.

Urinous broken phone booths lead you
from street to back street, to this last one
which stands at the edge of a demolition site.

Unbelievably, it works. With a sense of luxury
you light a cigarette. There is time yet.
Your fingers press the numbers, almost sensually.

Tomorrow you return. Below the flyover
the sparkling merging motorways glamorise
the night. The telephone is ringing in your house.

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