there is a box. and try as you might
to fit him in, parts keep sticking out
keeping you from closing the lid. he
fidgets, dancing foot 2 foot, refusing
2 look you N the eye, annoying you,
as you raise your voice, to be heard
he stutters, words cascading out his
mouth in jumbled masses, rocks w/
sharp edges, then escalating, yelling,
swearing, out right refusing 2 move
to your wishes. there is a box, & he
does not fit it, spilling out more like
puzzle pieces yet to be put 2gether.
do you speak goldfish? he asks, his
cheeks sucking in as he puckers his
lips & they watch him through the
glass. he barks like a rabid dog at a
mountain lion, creating awkward
moments, as he does often. clumsy,
he answers i dunno when U ask him.
@ times he doesn't listen, but do U?
it's called autism. and he is your son.
U can get angry @ him or love him,
push him into a box that doesn't fit
him or learn to speak goldfish and
watch him swim...
there is a box
and he doesn't fit
but that doesn't make him
any less beautiful a gift.
this is a theme thursday post.
for thursdays poet rally, i nominate jp.