Portrait of a Seven-Year-Old with Autism Role-Playing at the School Assembly

On stage, some guy,

hired to speak about drugs,

asks me if I want

a cigarette.

Confused, I say,

Of course not,

but you’re holding

a pen. 

If I Were Born Before the Typewriter

(Confessions of a Dysgraphic Poet)

I’d rummage in winter—in alleyways

between buildings for something

to eat. & when people are walking

down the city streets,

I’d plead, please feed me.

I’d crawl into warm piles of trash

& confess—only to the horde of

flies swarming around me—

the contents of what today

had brewed for my soul.

I’d pray a lot.

Pray that tomorrow, I could

use the coins I’ve saved to pay

a scrivener to—finally—write out

my poem. A poem to remind me 

that I’m not entirely broken.