B
David Fine
P is a naughty letter,
rowdy and rude
boys-will-be-boys bold;
it pops up in polite conversation,
reddening puritanical pusses, as
adolescents quip about
P that flows from PPs unsheathed,
long after the puns have grown old.
I long to plunge like the P,
to push deep into something,
offend and provoke,
as I pen words like
paroicous and prurient. O,
and there's that sound again;
I arch back
in a paroxysm of release.