When I hear someone claiming
they had an imaginary friend
when they were a kid
I almost say, “bullshit,” but I don’t.
I’m not saying they are liars.
The subconscious believes
what it believes.
If someone wants an audience
bad enough they will say anything.
Not me, but I will shout
bullshit inside my head.
Precocious people are entertaining
but I wouldn’t want to be one.
Did you hear the story
about the farmer’s daughter?
It seems every time she wanted
a good roll in the hay,
there was a salesman sleeping
in her daddy’s barn. See what I mean?
The earth has theatre in its blood.
I’ve been around long enough
to give a guy a break, a leg up,
the benefit of the doubt,
& not to assume the worse.
If reality is a movie, I’m the strong,
silent-type, a man who plays fair,
doesn’t draw first like Gary Cooper
in High Noon, a man who doesn’t pay
much notice, doesn’t give a hoot, or a fig,
or a plug nickel about invisible friends,
a man who shouts “bullshit”
inside his head, downs a shot
of whiskey in one gulp
as he leaves the saloon, tips his hat
to the prostitute he loves
knowing her love for him isn’t real.
