Nonfiction

In the twilight hours of crisp fall,
I hid my books behind my grandmother's couch.
By the glow of lanterns and flashlights,
I made a smuggler's cove.
Secured by my blanket door and secret password,
I stacked my books tall and wide.
Tracing my fingers into the inky lunar hours,
I read of things that were, or had been, or could be.
Vainly waiting for my mother to return from work,
I read only nonfiction.
Never once pausing to think,
if it made me strange.