(a poem about my own real Invisible Friends, with bonus philosophical musings such as: 1. Being Alive is different for different species. 2. Can anyone trust their perception or is it all compromised by projection? 3. Observer’s Paradox; How much does our attention affect what we are attending to? 4. Is it safety or is it prison?

Little birdies I love you.

So I keep you in your box, under my dresser.

I will keep you warm.

I will keep you safe from harm.

—————————–

My brothers try

To smash you

Stomp you

Kill you

No!

I always say

“You can’t hurt them. They got away.”

“Those weren’t REAL birdies, they were robot fakes!”

as long as you’re in the box

you’re safe

always.

————————————————

We moved away when I was ten

 I haven’t seen the dresser or birdies since then

(I’m  much too old for invisible friends.)

————————————————–

But just now ,somehow, I found the box again.

Dare I open it?

Schroedinger’s birdies are within.

————————————————-

Maybe maybe you’re just fine

like the RC bottle in red mud with moss inside

that years later on my mother’s windowsill still  thrives

ecosystem self-sustaining alive.

———————————————

maybe you’ve been in suspense four decades

Waiting in there  like tardigrades

for me to bring  the food and light

so you can finally 

come back  to life.

————————————-

maybe you are dust

and now I can grieve 

your hollow bones long crushed

your death is reprieve

———————————————-

maybe there’s nothing

and I never knew

 if serpents devoured

you long since

you  freely flew.

—————————————————-

Holding the lid on

I can still wonder

if my stories or attention

 change anything

 at all.

If you have made it this long,

could you sit by the sill 

and sing me a song?

—————————————-

If I open your box, or when

will God or somebody

open mine then?