Looking Back

Because I was smart, and was an only 
child, I knew—or thought I knew—that I had 
invented an imaginary friend. 
I remember, though, I wasn’t lonely— 
I liked being by myself, wasn’t sad— 
I had my grandparents, who both would tend  

to overindulgence rather than not. 
So why the imaginary friend? She 
wasn’t even a playmate, I didn’t  
know her name. I would pretend that she got 
on my bus at a certain stop, and we 
would just smile at each other. She wasn’t  

there when we reached the school, I used to 
put that down to my not needing any 
invisible companions once I had 
reached a school full of other people who 
I could hang around with. Ordinary 
kids, who didn’t disappear, who were glad  

to talk to me, who knew my name while I 
knew their names too. Honestly, I wouldn’t 
think about my pretend friend again for 
the whole day. It wasn’t like I would try 
to see her, to make myself pretend it 
was real, it just was something I did, or  

rather, she did. I’d look out the window
of the school bus at a certain stop, and 
there she’d be. She’d get on, a little bit 
behind the other kids who got on, go 
to a seat, always the same seat, or stand 
by it if the bus was crowded. I’d sit  

because I always had a seat, getting 
on the bus early in its route, and I’d 
watch her get on, watch her go to the same 
place as always, I’d smile fast, not letting 
anyone else see me do it, I tried 
to keep it on the down low, it was lame  

enough to have a secret pal that no 
one else could see but me. I knew it, I 
couldn’t help it though, I’d see her plain as 
day, every single morning. She would go 
to that spot, smile back at me and then by 
the time the bus got to the school she was  

not there anymore. Always the same thing. 
I figured I needed her for some strange 
reason, I mean, why does any kid make 
up pretend friends? Later, understanding 
the nature of hauntings and the whole range 
of ghost behaviors, I saw my mistake.

The Pigeons

Winter days when tree branches reveal spare 
Vistas from every chilly perch, a pair 
Of wings is not much help. The frigid air  

Encircles us as we hop and search, slow 
And hungry, for frozen berries left low 
On neglected twigs whose cold flavors owe  

More to our hunger than to their own grace, 
Still, we are happy to find them. Our race 
Cannot survive on ice and air. Our ace  

In the hole has always been the odd break, 
The lucky find, the grass seed in the rake 
Teeth, the lunch bags left on benches. The ache  

Of hunger, the slake of thirst, we allay 
With searching for where everything may lie 
That we can eat or drink in winter. A 

Kind old lady who puts out feed, the stable 
With fresh water troughs outside, a table 
In a café yard where, if we’re able  

We peck delicious crumbs while children screech 
And patrons patronize us as we reach 
For little bits of food held out by each. 

JULEIGH HOWARD-HOBSON

Juleigh Howard-Hobson’s poetry has appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Mobius, The Lyric, Able Muse, Weaving the Terrain (Dos Gatos), and many other places. Nominations include Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize and the Rhysling Award. Her latest book is Our Otherworld (Red Salon).