You’re walking down the street alone,absorbed in the anticipation of a lunchtime saladwith that crusty olive bread you like so much,and suddenly you’re marching in formationin a crowd, it’s called a regiment.You seem to be a soldier this time, you learnto be at war. You’re never really in dangerbecause you know you can’t diein your dreams, but sometimesyou wonder who told you that and whetherthey could be trusted. The sidewalk is splitand uneven because of the shrapneland the artillery shells; yesterdayyou didn’t know the definition of artillery,but today you know how to use it, all kindsof field ordnance. “Ordnance” is a wordyou’d never heard before. Every timethere’s so much to notice, so muchto remember and write down. Here’sa little notebook with rubbed-down cornersfor your back pocket. It’s the little thingsthat distinguish one war from another,tonight your shoes are black standard issuemarching boots that lace halfway upyour calves, whereas the other nightyou had no shoes, or the shoes you’d lostwere beige bedroom slippers whose plushoffered no protection from the slush and rainyou trudged through. The subway crashdistracted you from that, nowyou’re climbing over the wreckageto the next sheltered position, air thickwith morning mist (you’re shivering), smokeand a haze of acrid dust, it burns your lungs.You’re clambering through accordionedcars, where are those twisted railsthat won’t carry any passengers taking you?