Borrowed Poem

I wander/ wonder lost.
Trying to find where I belong.
Sure of neither place nor time.

Can I hear traffic’s white noise punctuated by screeches and horns,
the giggles and splishes of a stream
or the dry parchment cracklings of leaves underfoot?

Is it diesel scented exhaust,
an undercurrent of wildflowers
or the not-quite smell of impending snow?

I remember all these things.
And more.
But still I am unsure of my place.

Do hot, dry winds bite with sand,
or warm rain drizzle like kisses?
A frosty morn where I billow my breath like a dragon?

Which of these have I lived,
or read in a book,
or watched enveloped in a dark theater?
Sometimes, it seems the most vivid memories don’t belong to me.
I borrow them from other writers.
What will I do when they want them back?