You Got Asperger's
You got Aspergerís, this ainít a barbecue.
Itís your whole afternoon though, lost down a rabbit hole,
looking for a timepiece, wonder when your dateís at,
wonder if sheíll visit you at all today ó relax.
Wonder how many ribbons to expect in her hair ó
to deflect talk of triplets in respect for the pair
or to stare at the bow made of four different colors ó
didnít notice someone talking to you: there were others
in the room, out in the gloom of the periphery.
To shift your focus for a moment is to give the ribbons liberty,
and thatís to suggest they make escape.
This is a secret from the future: canít rewind like a tape.
Got to make the best and the most of each moment as it happens,
got to keep your eyes on those bows, got to trap in
your vision all four of them Ďcause this is a first:
she might have noticed last time that you like ribbons that are hers.
And sometimes you wish you didnít. Sometimes it slips your mind.
But when sheís supposed to visit isnít one of those times,
and youíre on one of those lines of thought that you encounter
when youíd rather your surroundings were quieter instead of louder
so that you could focus on other than a clock tick.
You donít want to talk shit but the one who made the clock made the cog stick.
Minutes are violent noise,
obliterating what you thought of as silent poise .
Miles of boys before you done got crushed
out on a girl like that, her hair flush
with ribbons on all occasions and every day.
If only making study of the bow could stem its getaway.
Letter A S P E R G E R S:
wonder whether sheís so confident with alphabets
that sheíd do it backwards skipping alternate letters.
If you offer demonstration, would she consider that clever?
This bitter endeavor: trying to predict a reaction.
You know youíre supposed to try to give the notion traction
but it donít do nothing Ďcept make the clock tick.
It donít even do that. Yo, you got Aspergerís, kid.
And I feel for you, son. I know love is hard.
Canít even write down all the answers on the back of a card.
From the back and the far end of a cafeteria line
you seem to catch sight of a ribbon. Fabric shines,
and you abandon your tray, leave it clatter on the floor.
You havenít planned it this way. You canít look at her no more.
You donít know what her eyes are like, whether she ever smiles,
whether anything other than how she wears her hair beguiles.
And while some apron ladies holler at you,
you clutch your left ear and stand still like a statue.
You could count cut corn on the floor without subtracting
misplaced fish sticks like Dustin Hoffman overacting.
Ainít this already a scene in need of a fast forward?
Why wonít the lunch people hush, do they court discord?
You think you see a flash of color fleeing; it could be worse:
you could have known how many ribbons there are, if they were hers.
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