Skeeter, my imaginary comical sidekick,

Is much older than me –

60-something,

short, wiry,

with requisite grizzled grey beard,

tangled shoulder-length hair.

 

Actually, he’s as bald

as a turtle’s egg on top,

So he sleeps in his sweat-stained 10-gallon Stetson,

And, of course, his snoring is

wheezily musical.

 

Imaginary comical sidekicks

Are easier to care for than pets.

Because of their invisibility,

You can take them anywhere.

 

On the Metro.

Because he’s invisible,

Skeeter gets sat on a lot.

When some disaffected, slouching

Teen with earbugs plops down,

Skeeter never fails to let loose

a screedy torrent of whispery

G-rated cussin’:

 

Dagnabbit,

Whippersnapper!

Golly bum!

Watch where you’re sitting!

Ain’t you got no

Consideration?

Pipsqueak!

 

On rainy Saturdays,

We hang out watching old Westerns,

Hopalong Cassidy and Gabby Hayes,

Roy and Dale and Pat Brady —

“Pat’s about as funny as Tonto”,

Skeeter says, and “Tonto’s about

As funny as small pox,” I say —

And we sing together as one,

“Yippy-tie-yo-tie-yay.”