Just stop tilting
I doubt he's packed yet,
But, my little Ajax is going north, this time, to rest a while.
Sometimes the mean kids steal his paint and string. And he gets very upset.
Sometimes he stays up ungodly late at his desk sweating and shaking, he crawls into bed, into birds, sobbing that he just can't get it. He's trying, but he'll just never get it. It's on the tip of his finger, outlined around his secret system like a deflated car tire around a second cousin's broken english, but he'll just never get it.
No, that's me.
The truth is I don't know what he's feeling, no idea.
I guess there's lots of things I'll never figure, aid, string in bands around our crown of years, and snacks, and ways we used to talk.
He has a mole under the right corner of his bottom lip, if you see him, give him a big hug for me. And give him all the things I made for him.
And signed to bigger things like moms and pills and last resorts.
Give him a dry cloth in case the roof leaks where he's going.
Give him this Katherine Hepburn movie in case he has any questions about where I go on Monday mornings before he wakes up.
Don't go on and on about how genius he his, when he's in a state like this, that just makes things worse.
Remember he has an identical twin who's very in, and out, and proud, and on some list, and drives a car, and makes the grades, and lives with her, so, there's always that.
He likes his books on the floor, all around him, piled high in orders that skate and swivel storms of neon, reversible rage around that father we share in merciless tandems of tales.
The father who leaves him each morning in sweats on the couch.
Just make sure his colors stay separate, and give him plenty of string.
So he can find his way back.