We chased each other around with forks
and declared, We’re little Indian devils.
Kids are strange and the memories stranger.
Every once in awhile a thought breaks
through that can’t possibly be true,
a man, holding my little-girl hand, 
pulling me through a department store
until I run away and find my mother.
Could that have really happened?
Was I almost abducted? Strangers,
and other dangers I cannot explain.
We’re little Indian devils, jumping
over suitcases with forks in our hands,
leaving a lamp on inside a sleeping bag
until it burned a hole in the fabric.
But my father came to the rescue,
surprised at what we had done.
Little Indian devils chasing each other
with forks, running in the house
but no one cared, no one really cared.