orange
happiness
shallow
line
SAME STORY
I’ve known the story since second grade,
that terrible year. The teacher checking
our fingernails and handkerchiefs,
teaching nothing but tedium. Gray
and marcelled, as chained as I
to that small-town school.
The stench of hot-lunch goulash.
White bread spread thick with margarine.
The shallow patch of backlot gravel
where we tried to play.
Reading was my happiness.
Sometimes I was allowed
to sit on the windowsill with a book.
And where would I have found
such a thing in that barren place?
I can still see the drawing clearly—
the line of the girl’s dress,
the dragon’s orange flame.
And the prince—not St. George, I think—
but it was the same tale—
the monster demanding sacrifice,
the unexpected release.