— for Laura and Nick

Two pre-teens disappear
while chicken dinner's cooking.
We parents overhear
nothing. No counting, looking

(that's hide and seek), no ball—
slam, bam—thumping the floor.
So I head to the upstairs hall,
knock on the study door.

"Hi, Mom!" "This is a gas!"
Two heads bend over a book.
"Cathouse."  "Go to grass."
"And bunnyfuckhere—look!"

Their fun's quite scholarly,
Leiter's thick tomes of slang
etymology.
They've thumbed through "crack" and "bang."

Half-page for "chase the duck"?
"Oh, this is hot!" "Let's see!"
Ten pages detail "fuck,"
just like the OED.

Last week I read advice
on giving youth life's facts:
speak truth but be concise,
don't focus on the acts.

"This 'bunnyfuck,'" I say,
distastefully, "Wastes joy.
You might make love all day.
And when you're older, boy

and girl, you'll get to choose."
(But skip the cathouse, please,
drugs, goola box, hard booze,
plus all those STD's,

and tacky, strip-tease clothing.)
"So what's a double-ender?"
"Here's your first clue, it's nothing
to do with sex or gender."

Our mood is casual:
"Did you already guess
the old Morse Code for bull-
shit?" "Baker Sierra." "Yes."

We breathe a Jazz-age mime
of bar and gaming den.
Back alleyways of rhyme
replay romance from when

tart slang pursed lips, returned
sweet bite. Next round, I pass:
"The bee's on me. Burn
dinner? I go to grass."