A Favorite Word
My friend, a Black Belt in karate,
was hired to watch over a rich autistic kid;
he said he acted like he was
in a dream, he’d approach you like you were a
statue, and touch you on the shoulder the way
one does to test if something were hot, then
slowly look away in blithe thought, staring
off into the sky, a faint smile rising on
his thin lips.
And one of the many things his
family didn’t understand, was how the very
instant left unattended, he’d steal away
to where they knew exactly where to find him:
up-stairs, next to the attic window
sitting Indian-style, hunched over
a dictionary spread in his lap.
They eventually hid every one in the house
because they felt it was unhealthy
to get lost in words for hours on end.
I asked if the kid had a favorite word. My friend
asked him, and he did—printed out in child-like scrawl,
was the word Lepidopterological.
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