Some memories are faraway sounds in the night,
Not country sounds of some agrarian
Unlived life, old clothes out of photos belonging to no one.
No, these are urban sounds of racing engines
Much closer to homes actually lived in,
Heard right now distantly, recalled from dreams,
Yes, something from a dream. Old boxes you
Happen to look inside as you carry them
Out, maybe for someone else, not even your own,
And some old thing or other catches the attention,
A bit of glass or wood a woman bought
For reasons in that moment you recall,
Now meaningless except to those who were
There right then. Conversations with old friends
Can be like that, like sorting through a bag
Found in a basement or an attic or a closet.
The stories pour out from that time, or was it
Another sort of memory, the kind from work
Badly reworked, hot dogs kept in his desk.
“I like hot dogs,” he said. These are untrue.
But there was that guy, Scott Smith, cans of tuna
That had to be thrown out, no one would open.
They are not true, but they are something like
War stories, not quite lies, but something someone
Else did attributed to you. But who
After the last is carried out will recall
What things once meant to whom, the boxes full,
Only reopened in dreams, if ever at all?
No one remains to make them what they mean.
Wake, and those shadows all escape like moths
Or ghost laughter nowhere to be seen.
5/6/2021
I Dwell In Possibility 