The Holiday Inn



Northerners. But honest.

Him, hands like shovels,

his eyes brimming and fish-flick.

And her, well.


You get used to not asking.

Any space at all they said.

We’ll take anything.

I gave them the shed


after getting a roasting

for looking a gift horse

in a recession.

A booking’s not what it was.


It’s where I keep the Triumph.

My baby.

I couldn’t help wondering

where I’d put the WD40.


I saw his head crowning,

then there he was,

bruised, not an inch of pink on him.

She never took her eyes off him once.


The sky lit up like Christmas

suddenly – a police chopper

looking for insurgents

some said, or a nutter.


I lost the booking slip in the end.

Got roasted for that, too.

Might have fetched a fortune.

Paperwork was never my strong suit.