He looked at the red-headed six-year-old boy sitting in the too-big chair across from him. Bobby was a small boy with a freckled face and skinned knees. He sat in the big chair with his feet sticking straight out in front of him and played with a slide rule.
"I've taught you all the math I know," Ward said. "Differential, integral, topology, Maddow's Theory of Transfinite Domains—that's as far as I go. What's next?"
"I don't know, John. I was thinking of going in for nuclear physics, but...."
"Go on, but what?" Ward prompted.
"Well...." Bobby gave him an embarrassed look. "I'm kind of tired of that stuff. It's easy and not very interesting. What I'd really like—" He broke off and began fiddling with the slide rule again.
"Yes, Bobby, what would you like?"
"You won't be mad?"
"No." Ward smiled.
"Well, I'd really like to try to write a poem—a real poem, I mean, not advertiverse—a real poem, with rhymes and everything." He paused and looked to see how Ward was taking it and then went on with a rush. "I know it's almost illegal, but I want to try. I really want to."
"But why?"