A Way with Words

Seventeen years ago I hid behind a tree when the bell rang at the end of lunch, more interested in Roald Dahl and L. Frank Baum than the second grade. Twelve years ago I took one bag of clothes and one of books to camp, and forgot my swimsuit. Seven years ago I moved to the wrong side of the country and couldn't properly locate myself, and so rode the subway with Philip Roth and William Goldman and Ayn Rand, the secret army I'd brought with me, until I knew the foreign city well enough. Two years ago I traded a book for a sandwich and I'm still not sure if it was the right move. Last night my friend found me on his doorstep reading Tolkien, and he laughed because the streetlight was blown and I was running out of matches.