on the boys I work with

They speak of penguins and pirates. They do puzzles for hours. They play alone. They pick their noses. They put their hands down their pants. They repeat. They never wash their hands. They never think before they speak. They paint their hands, not the paper. They eat the crayons. They throw the pencil. They throw the paper. They throw the chair. They laugh with their faces pointed to heaven. They never hug their mom. They eat the play doh. They never play pretend. They repeat. They touch the door handle. Then they touch it again. They say "no" when they mean it. They never hug their dad. They growl, they grunt, they sigh, they scream, they smile. They speak in tongues. They repeat. They hum. They hurt themselves. They rock their bodies. They never look you in the eye. They repeat. They won't do what they don't want to do. They repeat. They speak of dinosaurs and dentists, of spiders and schlock. They don't respond to their own name. They never lie. Someday they will grow a mustache.