AUTISTIC EVENING ROUTINE

Jesse walks through the living room,
grabs a broom to sweep the floor
before evening routine at 7:30 PM
when he sees mom coming around
the back, her part of the duplex, closing
the garden gate with the leather strap,
walking Oreo. Jesse dashes out the door,
skips across the blinking, Christmas lit porch
and she asks if he wants to come for a walk.
Yes, of course he does. So, go get dressed.
No, Tony doesn’t mind. Jesse hurries, finds
a long-sleeved shirt, socks, ski jacket, sneakers

Mom yells where’s your hat and Jesse turns around,
rushes back through the door, down basement
stairs. I hear whines, grunts, the way he says
where’s my blue hat, I always leave it here, before
I trudge down, ask what’s going on. We both start
looking, run all around the house. I say maybe
we left it on the bus. He says no on bus, makes
louder sounds. Mom comes in, searches too. When
we give up, she asks me to write information down.

We sit at a table. I ask for a few sit and breathes,
slow deep breaths please, then I print out big block
letters while reciting blue hat lost, blue hat gone,
goodbye blue hat, that’s it in my calm, level tone,
not my annoyed, cranky, end of the day voice. Just
put the orange one on, the one with polka dots and snow
flurries, they’re all the same. Jesse. do you even
like the dog? Jesse speed reads the note, pushes
it away, gets louder. I write down new hat tomorrow.
He says no tomorrow, stomps his feet. Me, mom,
exchange looks, worry an explosion’s near: teeth marks
on his forearm, head banging on the floor. She mouths
Target. We shrug shoulders and off they happily go.

Fifteen, twenty minutes, they’re back. He tosses a bag
on the table, a gray hat with a pack of briefs he opens.
Immediately he wants to cut off every tag from everything–
go get your scissors Jess–before anything else. Then,
all the briefs must go in basement bins. When mom asks
are you ready to walk Oreo, Jesse’s answer is a deep,
husky-throated no to show he means business: 7:30,
evening routine, brush teeth. I repeat evening routine,
7:30. He strides away satisfied. I start cracking up. Mom
looks at me funny. I say no walk dog tonight, point at Oreo
who looks like he’s got to pee real bad. Mom starts laughing.

*

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC and managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. Poems have been published in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Populi, Gargoyle, B O D Y. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and Here on Earth will be published by NYQ
Books in 2024.