If someone anywhere right now
is imagining me,
saying my name thoughtfully,
with her pink tongue touching
the smooth ceiling of her mouth
softly to pronounce the T,
like the first brush stroke
in a figurative landscape painting of
He-Who-Is-the-Subject-of-This-Poem,
--then I can relax a moment
in the matter of remembering myself,
I can close my eyes and let
the whole factory of identity go
drifting in the dark
like a big brick warehouse full of anxious secrets
in an unsafe neighborhood
gone quiet at the end of day,
yet guarded and protected and caressed
by the softly conscious flashlight
of my imaginary friend's
imagination.
--Tony Hoagland
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