Your little face across from me is creased
with pent emotion leaking, almost-tears
of grudging tantrum, as you blurt the least
exact elusive words (so it appears
to me, who misses signs of hurt and tries
dissecting syllables). I look to fact,
ignore your rigid lip and open eyes,
and puzzle what you really mean by “tact.”

If I’m so bright, then why am I this dull?
If I’m enlightened how am I so dense?
It seems I have to let subconscious mull –
I have to sleep before I can make sense
of laden language, incoherent, true:
the pearls of wisdom mispronounced by you.