For the first time
That I can ever recall
I met a man
Named Paul
That I could not recall
At the time
In a dream
Particular
Was this perchance
Precisely because
This Paul was a man
Who I was meeting
For the second time
When the first time
Was also
Only ever in a dream
So it makes sense to me
Now awake remembering
That in this second dream
Where I was in a golf shop
In rainy New York
Testing out clubs
With my friend John
And afterwards we walked home
In the rain
With our coats
Pulled around our necks
(I can remember
Now awake
With uncanny accuracy
That we seemed to be older
Than I am now
Here laying in bed
And also that a group of people
That we passed in the street
Were huddled under an awning
To stay out of the rain
Watching the news
On TV screens
And talking about trading stocks
(Such is my subconscious
Perception of New York
It seems)
So John and I
Make our way back to the apartment
And this is when I meet Paul
John and I
Are sitting at his kitchen table
Late at night
On a weekday
Eating pie
That he had left over
From a party
—I remember these details
Because John said to me,
In the dream,
“This is never something you would do,
Eating pie
On a weekday.”
And before I could respond
And tell John
How vehemently I agreed,
But this
Was a special occasion
—I prepared to tell him this,
I was thinking it,
I can remember.
And right then,
Paul came up
To the table
With another friend
Seemingly
From another room
Somewhere else in the apartment.
He and his friend were dressed
Like they were going out
For the night.
He came up
And slapped me on the shoulder
And said,
“Ho, Cole, how have you been?”
Which is when,
I looked across the table at John
And then back up at Paul
In confusion
As I thought to myself
That I had never met
This Paul before
And so wondered
Why he was now greeting me
With such seeming remembrance.
As they both perceived my confusion
And in the space of silence that lingered thereafter
Where Paul seemed to be expecting a greeting in return,
John stepped in and said,
“Cole, it’s Paul!”
I did not know the meaning,
At first,
Of John repeating
With more intonation
Paul’s name
As if that would be the cue
For me to remember
But I still
Could not recall.
Seeing my inability to remember
They all started to laugh
Even Paul’s friend
Who seemed to have no relation
To the situation,
As if they all together
Were in on some inside joke
That I was left out of.
When they had all laughed
And slapped each other’s shoulders
And wiped tears out of their eyes
John caught his breath
For one final try, and asked me again,
“Cole, do you really not remember?”
Remember what?
I thought to myself.
I felt like a man
Left outside in the rain
Looking in through a window
Into a warm and well-lit party
That I was not part of.
But this Paul was a cool cat
And he brushed it off like it was nothing,
My not remembering him.
He stepped around the table
To grab something from the cabinet
To eat on his way
To where he was going out,
This I can best recall
From the dream
From which I have woken
And am now writing.
It was then
That the mental event
In my own mind occurred
Which makes this a dream
Worth remembering,
And therefore writing—
For as Paul
Was walking down and out
Of the long hallway
In the apartment
With his friend,
It was then
That I suddenly remembered!
Paul!
Of course I knew Paul!
The last time I was in New York …
It was all coming back to me.
On another occasion,
I had visited John
And we were all going out.
We were in the living room
Of his apartment
And Paul was there too,
And as a matter of fact,
So was his friend!
We were drinking,
I was remembering
Within this dream
What seems to be
A memory,
Which at the time
In the dream
Seemed to me
To be completely organic
Just as anyone
Would all of a sudden
Recall a memory
That they had
For an instant, forgotten.
And so I said again, “Paul!”
But this time aloud,
And got up from the table
To chase him down the hall.
He turned on his heel
Hearing his name
And I ran down
The not so long length
Of the long hall
To give him a hug.
I could feel the extra mass
Added to his thin frame
By the winter coat
He had put on
To go outside.
He hugged me back
And then pushed me away
And laughed like before.
In the interchange,
Paul tried to hand me
A cigarette
That he had seemingly
Lit up
While he was still in the apartment
Walking out the door.
I tried to grab it
But missed
In the pinch between
Our fingers
And it fell on the floor,
Still smoking
Inside the apartment.
But this Paul was so cool
He didn’t seem to notice
Or care.
He would have just as soon
Gotten the pack
Out of his coat pocket
To light up another
Before bending down
To pick up the dropped one.
“There you go,”
He said.
“Now you’re remembering.
Not your fault,
I’m not offended.
We did feed you
Quite a few drinks that night.”
And this I could now recall,
If only in blurry pieces
How we had all drank together
That night in New York,
For my first visit
(This now,
Being the second).
Us four,
Including Paul’s friend,
Who I now assumed to be
John’s third roommate,
Had all had
Quite a good time.
“Well, I’ll see you next time,”
Paul said,
Now seeming
To be in a bit of a hurry
To get out the door
To wherever he was going out.
Hearing this,
John leaned back in his chair
From the living room
To poke his head
Around the corner
Into the hallway and say,
“You’ll be seeing him,
A lot more now,
Paul.
Cole’s going to be
Our fourth roommate.”
This must have been
The occasion
For my being
In New York,
I thought,
As John said this
As if it was news to me.
And that
Is the last thing
I can remember
From the dream.
Now I wonder,
Awake, as I write this,
If the memory
Of meeting Paul
For the first time
Was another dream
That I have had
Some other sleeping night
Out of my actual
Waking life.
Or, if it was a memory
Completely fabricated
Within that dream itself,
The one I have just had
And am now awake from,
Writing about it.”
For the feeling
Of having forgotten something
And then soon after,
Remembering all of a sudden,
Like a word on the tip of your tongue,
Or the name of an author
Whose book has come up in conversation
—That feeling
Was so real to me
In the dream,
That surely
That memory must come
From something else
At least as real
As another separate dream,
And not something so fickle
As a memory
Within a dream
—For then,
From what other world
Would come that memory?
A memory which has never
Seen the light
Of a real waking day
Nor the muddled dark
Of dreams
That are themselves
So often forgotten
But somewhere deep
In my subconscious
Are a subset of memories
Which I may never recall
As I remember things
While awake,
But may only ever recall
Within a dream,
Or not at all.