Pumby was with us
for a few years back then.
Our three-year-old daughter’s
imaginary best friend

graced our table, seated in the
“empty” chair at our tea parties.
At night, she lay under the bed,
keeping the monsters away.

They got along so well. Pumby
was a perfect friend and scapegoat,
accepting her role as the guilty one
when something went wrong.

We were told she moved to
New York City when
the girls were teens, but
she’s baaaack!

Who else could have
let the mouse in,
or shoved the dirty socks
under the bed.

And who else would’ve
lit fireworks past midnight,
then wake me by turning
up the music at dawn?

Welcome home, Pumby,
and Happy New Year!