“You just have to pokemon,” you said
in response to a question about the best way
to get Pikachu onto a bus.

The following week I saw him,
waiting patiently as the number twenty-six
pulled up alongside the bus shelter.

Paying heed to your words I began to poke him,
gently at first, like the unsure fumblings of an
awkward teenager worried about the crossing of the line.

Stoic indifference ensued. My poking became more
insistent, the testy tapping of a typewriter replying to
an overdue payment claim for a bill long since settled.

It was only when I began prodding his stripy behind
with my pipe that he turned and addressed me,
a Pokemon fire burning in his eyes, saying:

“I am actually waiting for the number four.
What need do I have to go to Watford?”


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