He’s still here, lovable as
dandelion and burdock, fizzed,
tangy. If only I could go back
home, knock on the front door,
wait in his rushing steps down
the haunted hallway. Would
he like me? Think I’m a fool?
Or back up, afraid of his own
shadow? I’d say, ‘Hi. Hey, go
and get your gun and belt, the
silver star, and football scarf,
your cheese and onion crisps
and boots, your little guitar’.
He’d hear I knew him inside
out, so we’d swagger out onto
Townsend Lane, him donned in plastic
and cardboard, his eyes on the look-
out for someone evil and friendly
enough to gun down and share
his stolen bar of milk chocolate
with.

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