Who takes care of my imaginary friends?
Playmates of childhood.
Did they die when I ceased
playing with them?
Did they stand in a closet
waiting for me to open the door?
And slowly become part of the darkness?
Does Santa Claus look for my letters?
Is there a candle burning
in some faraway chapel
where God stands by the altar
looking at the door,
his eyes never wavering.
Do all make-believe people
believe in me more than I in them?
Does the Holy Mother wait for me
to forget my prayers
and kiss me in my sleep
forgiving my conditional devotion?
Perhaps I may be the imaginary one.
Loved, for willing to be loved,
and looking out the window
for real friends to come by.
To call and wake me in the morning,
saying, Ted,
your world is still here.
Everything you love is safe.
Nothing will ever hurt you or them,
and you will live
as long as time goes by,
our imaginary friend.