At work with words in a lying world,
my tongue has a full-time job.

I drop words that shatter at my touch,
so many that want my full attention.

They wear outfits that don't fit, each one
a prima donna demanding attention.

Any word dancing in my head
hides if left too long alone,

every noun demanding its own verb
when my tongue sticks to my teeth

and I spit out a word as useful
as a gob of spit. My word horde

a mob, shouting, waving a placard
whether or not a bright noun

reaches out to any verb and
I am afraid if anyone comes near,

as my word hoard is unruly,
and I hear the mourning of

what little French I still know
and I may invite let mot in for the,
 
though a whole country might
sneer at my accent. Bon!

But, yes, for a few hours
I spit out some underage idea

the way I did as a child
when words and I played

beneath a honeysuckle bush,
just me and my preschool tongue.

No adult to tell me what to think,
I was free in my own world

where that child's tongue danced,
for an audience of earth worms,

four maple trees, and soft brown soil.
Yet, yes, all these years later

I play with the taste and sound
and my ow beloved words.