No Room at the Inn

Waiting for the snow-like foam to coverThe car, the Christmas carol slush-musicHas found me yet again –

You have to walk the moors, sodden with theRain Noah would have known if you want toEscape this siren sound.

I watch him emerge from the dingy-lookingBuilding like a robot programmed to washThe dirt from even the meanest car.

They are often illegals, these men, I’m told,Not welcome in our England without theOnly sacred book: a passport to pass

Through the portals of our good Christian homesWithout the furtive, backward glance of aQuarry stalked by a creature thick with claws.

The white foam covers the screen andI sit in the dark for a while waitingFor the light to be restored -

The water washes the dark awayAnd our eyes meet for the first and only time.He is a man like me, I muse, only

His voice betrays him to the crowd.He wishes me ‘a happy Christmas merry’And I smile as I drive away.

I hear faintly that the herald angelsAre singing still, but I doubtMs Patel will offer any mercy,

Mild or otherwise to a man whose handsAre red-raw from cleaning the filthFrom my comfortable car.