IMAGINARY

Gucko I still see, mostly for coffee
But sometimes for a beer or two.
Fufu, my brother Jean's other imaginary friend
I haven't seen in years. He was always
An elusive sort and contrary. Jean
Inherited him from a friend. I was jealous,
Having then only an imaginary fire truck
And a totem animal, a solemn bear
Who spoke without contractions.
Gucko gave sound advice given his age
Which was about four and a half; Fufu,
Even then, was no one you'd want
To meet beneath a moonless sky.

TALKING WITH GUCKO

Because my brother no longer speaks to him
His imaginary friend Gucko calls me with news
In the hope that I'll pass it on. I don't tell him
That E. isn't talking to me either. I rely
On Foofoo, E.'s other imaginary friend,
For what little I know of him these days.
How fortunate to have had two phantom playmates
So there’s always one to not talk to
And one for company while growing old.

BEAR

Since my brother had cornered the market
In imaginary friends, I made do one summer
With an imaginary associate, seen by appointment.
He was an offwhite polar bear, nearsighted
But impressively big. He sometimes growled
At Gucko and Foofoo when they visited my brother.
To a bear, two year olds are adults. We discussed
Politics and sports. He was frankly critical
Of my taste in clothing and advised me
That eating crayons was unlikely
To impress people or advance my career.

WAITING FOR GUCKO

I might well have drowned at 17

Had a boy on shore not decided

To impress a girl by saving me.

I came close enough that a spirit

Was already hanging about. Oddly,

I recognized him. It was Gucko

My brother’s imaginary friend.

So powerful was Eugene’s imagination

That he had squads of such friends

Plainly visible when I was two

And he was five. They were mostly

A surly, dour lot. Had they been old enough

They’d have loitered about unshaven,

Unlit cigarettes dangling from bitter lips.

Gucko was better natured than most

But clumsy, constantly walking into things

Or tripping over his feet. I hadn’t seen him

For years. Frankly, I had hoped

For a more impressive psychopomp

If not Hermes himself at least, say,

Culsans, the Etruscan god of doors,

Or the aboriginal Barnumbirr.

Years later, I ran into Gucko in Penn Station.

The trains weren’t running that night

So we went into a Starbucks for lattes.

He said it was probably just as well

That I’d not died in that Israeli lake.

Having little sense of direction he’d been

A poor psychopomp and many of his dead

Were still wandering about the world.

He was living on a pension (I had not thought

Imaginary folk had IRA’s, joined unions

Or paid into social security)

But hoped, though his skills were rusty,

That some strange and lonely child

Might take him on again.