James, poetry by Lynn White at Spillwords.com



written by: Lynn White


It was still his favourite toy,
that robot with the flashing eyes,
a birthday present when he was only five.
He called it James,
he couldn’t say why.
He didn’t know a James
so he was pleased to be original.
There was a lever called a joystick
because it brought him joy
and gave him perfect control.
Back and forth, round in circles,
blinking and winking away.
He called all the shots.

Now he’s grown up,
almost nine
and James is feeling his age
(yes, of course he can feel)
so his movements are slower
and his lights less bright and sparkly.
Age has undermined his splendour,
it happens,
he knew it would.
The joystick is a bit wonky
so control is imperfect
but it doesn’t matter,
the joy is the same.
James is still James
and will be forever.

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