You Can Draw Transformers

He tugs on a sheepish grin,
pulls the book from its carrier -
receipt fluttering like a fallen harrier -
and strokes the cover thin.

Apologises for the luxury –
“I know I said I’d budget
but I just saw it.
I sorry.”

His face, so often dipped,
taut from overwork, the blown-
out umbrella of let-downs,
is suddenly bright, tipped

with some pick-me-up or snake oil.
St John’s Wort, guarana, ginkgo?
fresh sea air? No,
a glossy hardback, his spoils

and the spur for a grin
and eyes squirrelish with mischief.
He cracks the cover, begins to leaf
through the trove within.

Thank you, IDW or whichever publisher
optioned step-by-step robot sketches,
making him grin for the first time in ages,
and thank you Ratchet, Red Alert, Sunstreaker.