Imaginary Dad

                             Was so imaginary   he ceased to exist

he wasn’t sleeping   in a treehouse    or stalking the woods

in fatigues    cheeks smeared green    with camouflage grease

a knife between his teeth    like I had envisioned him

he was just a married guy

                                          living

in a small town    near a dozen   of my made-up cousins

kin so distant    they didn’t even know    to miss me

all their lives

                         I’d picture them

fumbling in their pockets    through loose change

patting their pants   in search of something

left behind   all the time    never knowing

what it was

                     or what it was like

to eat Twizzlers    while watching   Apocalypse Now

in a darkened theater   on Bleecker St.

                                                                 to think

each time a soldier    appeared on screen    Now, there’s a dad

if I ever saw one   because of course   they’d seen one

he was nothing like that    and he belonged to me