REAL

My father's real soldiers in an imaginary country
Are the ancestors of the real men I once stranded
On the sides of a five-peaked imaginary mountain.
Their own ancestors, though, are more humble
Surely being Marianne Moore's real toads
In an imaginary garden. It is a pleasant place

And Moore’s tri-corned ghost often visits

Sitting under a tree listening to Red Barber

Broadcasting a 1955 Dodger game

The incumbent toads have mixed feelings

About living in Ms. Moore’s garden.
On the one hand, Death has no entrance key;

On the other, there's no sport in hunting
Imaginary bugs which never taste quite right.