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