Thursday 26 November 2009

#5 - Mr Gristle

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,
'Russell! Russell!'

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?'

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