AUTISM: A POEM

. . . . . XXXV. New Construction

In the distance, construction workers
. . . . . hammer for hours at a new house

taking shape. Alex sits on our porch
. . . . . and listens, softly nodding his head

under the slant of morning sunshine,
. . . . . as if remembering steady drumbeats

of an old song or offering a private
. . . . . signal of approval. When we walk

to watch the walls of the home rise
. . . . . in late afternoon light, the second

floor nearly done, he shades his eyes
. . . . . to peer up toward one of the higher

cut out places, as though he knows
. . . . . a son like him will some night look

off from that bedroom, in the same
. . . . . manner he does at times, and might

wonder about people passing below
. . . . . or view the brighter stars far above,

attempting to gauge ways of worlds
. . . . . always forming outside his window.