I have a recurring nightmare. In it, I imagine I’m watching “Storage Wars” and I see them enter my defaulted POD in Nashua, New Hampshire for the first time, and start laying my life out on the concrete.

All my musical equipment, my ’71 Les Paul, my Martin D-35, my piano, my Total Gym, my office equipment, my clothes, the dress greens I wore home from Vietnam, my computers, my video equipment, my personal effects, awards, pictures and books.

They pick the stuff up, make insensitive comments, even jokes and throw it to the side. It’s like live looting. It’s unbearable. And they have no idea. And they don’t care.

Those are the nights I run out of the house and into the dark, trying to burn the vision of that debacle out of my head.

I pump down El Camino in my Goodwill sweatsuit trying to imagine what it would be like to have the kind of money that could deliver me from that scene. I did once.

Early this morning, under that bright full moon, I wept into the reality that you really, really, can’t take it with you.

Maybe I won’t need it.