by Siddiq Islam
turn off the george and there he is,
that clumsy git with his smiling gob,
and i can’t help mirror my smile to his,
the satellite arms of that doughnut duffer,
come on mate, don’t be a knob,
i bury my hug in his pembroke puffer,
and a textless, snapless, three-month vac
melts away. a two-tick job.
and i’ve received my old friend back.