…Ranks of books
On the sides — old Miltons, Tolstoys, Wuthering
Heights, Ackermann’s Oxford. A holograph
Copy of Keats’s “To Autumn”…— from The Dream of a House, Reynolds Price
I find myself in medias res
as one always does in dreams
in a small office, such as
an associate professor
at a branch campus
like the one I attended
would have.
In real life I have
a home office
my office at my company’s office
an office under construction at a new location
an office I can borrow at my company’s main office
and the use of a co-working space downtown
So it’s not surprising that I’ve forgotten about this one
since it doesn’t really exist
but still I kick myself for having done so
and wonder why I rented the co-working space
which really does exist
and what would have happened
to all these books, every single one of them
a Penguin edition, bearing an orange and white spine,
had I not remembered them, or this wonderful view,
this forest outside a picture window.
Still dreaming, but starting to suspect,
I think of Reynolds Price’s poem
The Dream of a House
and compare my middlebrow taste in dream books.
But the principal motivation remains,
the recurring theme in these many
fugues of the subconscious
This is yours, understand. Meant for you.
Permanent.
I wake before being taken to the closet.
poetrytech 
knowing about the closet only because of reading about it in the book ‘writers dreaming’ i find your poem both enjoyable, rather entertaining and shocking.