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.
After he is gone, he still paid attention to poets rally and came back to visit some fresh talents from time to time, his love for poetry, poetry promotion and inspiration has kept him active as participants First, and active as one who supports or encourages other poets to join and have fun.