MY IMAGINARY FRIEND
The poor thing can’t sit still.
She cries a lot, wrings her hands.
I ask her to come outside with me
but she wants to sit under the table
in the dark. She wants to tell me
stories about the terrible things
that happened, or might happen.
She’s fussy about her fingernails,
the fit of her socks. She goes to bed
at the same time every night and rises
every morning at sunrise
or just before. She never has time
for anything important, and
she never does anything
trivial. I don’t take her anywhere
but she follows and precedes me
everywhere, asking, asking,
Who is to blame?
What do you want?
Who is imaginary? What is real?