I lay on his desk
wait for him to walk through his bedroom door
probably screaming and yelling words no one can understand
he throws his back pack on the floor and wobbles over to me:
his listener, for no one else does
his mom on drugs
his dad dead
his sister at college
his brother like him
he spells his words wrong
he never uses periods
his vocabulary awful
but his drawings...what a pleasure to posses
he draws with pressure on the tip of his pencil
his hands movement create drawings so casual
no one knows what it is he draws
but they mean something to him
so there are no flaws
every morning he draws just as he does for night
gets in trouble for being only in boxers when the short bus pulls up in the first light
he screams as they separate him from me
they yank the pencil out of his hand and throw on his clothes
he boards the bus unhappily
looks to his bedroom window and waves at me
he is 15 but is in 7th grade
he doesn't know how to talk or say his own name
but i do!
his name is jay
people forget him
but never me
so when he dies and they find me
they flip through my pages only to see
how smart, how beautiful, how magnificent he had been and always shall be
the boys that beat his face in everyday
are sorry now
their faces hang in a museum
on a piece of paper ripped from my seams
they are throwing punches at the well known autistic boy
who will never be harmed again
who is now flying free
perhaps he now draws in a different diary