My seven-year-old grandson
is his own best friend.
Has many school buddies
but plays for hours
with his creative self—
art work, Star Wars structures,
films movies on his IPad,
imitates Michael Jackson dances—
never afraid to be alone.
In my childhood, I rode imaginary horses.
Smoky, my invisible steed,
wherever he would gallop.
Then, my green and white Schwinn—
named Los Cappacaros from a Western
about some cool bandits—
took me into my teens.
Imagination
as a childhood playmate,
such a fine gift.
Originally published on Borderless Poetry