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 imaginary? Are you sure you are real?