Weir The boy believed that If only he could find And say aloud and thrice The one, the pure word, All that was broken in His world would be fixed, And so at night when His mother thought He was in bed he was running His finger through The dictionary his father Had left behind, With so much else, Trusting that he’d know The word when he saw it. One night, when he was deep In the alphabet, so deep He’d begun to worry He’d missed it, He found it.