Poetry

A child is a strange thing
that does take your most expensive books,
to stain them with his own drawings
and here and there words are twisted
 
and when that boy did find some of my first poems
he did write love poems for his girlfriend
and it was my own words with which he was wooing
that he did write down word upon word
 
and that file of mine was just gone
until I did find it beneath his bed
and to his mother those poems were inane, foolish and bad
but not for that child
 
and I wonder what he now does think of my verses,
if at times he still does place my words in his own ink?