If it all really is a dream

Within a dream—

However many dreams deep—

And I am recognized by a man

Who remembers selling me a Panama hat

Sixteen years ago—

A hat which is still in my possession,

On a shelf in my closet

Next to a bin of scarves—

Plural though I wear them singularly—

Then let’s say that in the Russian doll version of the dream—

A sequence of dreams, a real dream sequence—

Who am I?

And are there multiple men in hat shops

Proclaiming my familiar aspect,

Knowing my hat size the moment I walk in?

I’m between a 57 and a 58,

So perhaps he has confused me

With the men who can only wear either.

But being between,

I can choose to slide to the one

Or to the other.

And in doing so, perhaps I am in command of the dream.

Now, which scarf today?