He's vigorous, at least;
grasping at the wet-lipped ventilator
over his tracheotomy hole whenever he wants
to belch something especially emotive:
'Russell! Russell!' his good eye
roving from the pink slump of his head
like a tinker peering
through a knothole,
And, of course,
I come running.
'What is it this time,
Mr Gristle?' adding
a pantomime eye roll,
not to look at the mass
of keloid scars
decorating his chest like a botched tattoo.
'Are we going to play
silly buggers again?'