I know the F word
says the seven year old.
It’s Fuck.
There is no snarl
in the syllable,
only amusement
that a word
is called
by the same
first letter
that begins his name.
Oh yeah,
says the other seven year old,
who’s name begins
with C,
I know the C word.
He waits
for the F boy
to guess,
then says,
It’s Kissing.
This reads like one of those found poems, which it probably was, found up in the air, of course. I like now it ends, with the innocence preserved, for the time being. And this part leads up to that so well,
“There is no snarl
in the syllable,