PUNCH LIST

[Verse 1]
Tuesday, 2:18 AM, the Crestwood Suites off Camp Creek.
The air inside the lobby tastes like bleach and defeat.
Your MasterCard's declined, you try the debit with a quiet desperation,
the cracked screen on your iPhone 8 reflects the station.
A cheap fluorescent panel hums a low-frequency hiss,
same note as the ice machine at the end of this.
You tell the guy behind the desk you need a room with a view,
like there's a skyline here besides the Waffle House roof.

[Chorus]
One key card. Non-smoking. Top floor if there's one free.
A receipt you're gonna ball up in the pocket of your jeans.
The blueprint's been revised, a new foundation to inspect.
Check the box, initial here, collect the architect.

[Verse 2]
The rental's in the lot, a silver Altima with Georgia plates,
the car seat in the back just amplifies the empty space.
'Bout thirty seconds pass before a Delta jet descends,
a noise that used to mean arrivals, now it just means ends.
"King or a double?" the clerk asks, face a pale cathode-ray.
You see your own reflection in the plexiglass display.
The gold band on your finger leaves an indentation there,
a load-bearing promise floating in the recycled air.

[Chorus]
Two key cards. Still non-smoking. A room that's far from the stairs.
A receipt to prove you weren't somewhere else, that you were really there.
The blueprint's been revised, the old materials condemned.
Check the box, initial here, and never build again.

[Bridge]
You catch a glimpse of kudzu climbing up a retaining wall,
a slow-motion demolition waiting for the final call.

[Outro]
The red light on the smoke detector blinking in the dark.
Just a silent, steady, code-compliant question mark.