It was a clubhouse with fake phones in it,

when I first, without malice, called bitch

into the empty receiver, the girl I had tried

to kiss, holding it up to my chin, teaching me

how to swear. Then, those fuck fuck fucks

I strung together while my youthful body

found the reality of my sporting talent,

my shoulder fraying with every slight pull,

like those dreams had been made of cotton

& how good it felt to swear in the YMCA

when I dropped the dumbbell on my finger,

had it split the bone right through. True

in spirit, how I miss that innocent language,

awful in its expression, shocking to the spirit,

but now I use those words in earnest, in full

meaning. The man that knocked down

my daughter at the post office is a bastard

or a motherfucker. The ex-girlfriend, waving

herself at me online is a petty bitch

& with every bill I open, the math in my head

says fuck fuck fuck. All shit, I still like the sailor

in my vernacular, but it feels too close to me

now, too low on the hip, like a damned weapon.