By Kenneth Pobo


I tell few about Dun Dunt,

my invisible friend.  He’s fine

with that, says being a secret

makes him a man


of mystery.  At four I met him.

At twenty he saw me through

my first affair–I’d like to say

romance but love looked for

a parking spot while I loitered

in a lobby.  Dun Dunt said

I’d survive.  I did,

I guess.


If I look like a fuschia

that fell out of its pot,

Dun Dunt heads to the shed

for fresh dirt, snugs me in,

angles me in just

the right light.


Photo by Chris Ensey on Unsplash