The Hopes of an Autistic Boy

He has fixated on the Globe,
like a bored god, he spins it,
looking for inspiration. He finds
it in the patches of white that

he thinks are snow, the same
snow that fell yesterday in long,
soft showers. He spins the Globe,
finds the white patches, stabs them,

tells his patient mother that
it is the same snow, that it will fall,
‘Because God made it so.
I prayed and God brought snow.’

‘That’s right dear,’ his mother says,
ruffling his blonde hair – a normal
seven year old boy to look at.
He repeats his prayer, a mantra,

an obsession, he won’t drop the subject.
‘And God’s going to bring snow today
because I prayed lots and lots. God
listens to me because I pray to Him.’
 
His mother agrees knowing she shouldn’t,
that of all the prayers God hears,
this must but the weakest. But her son
is autistic. God will have patience.

The snow does not fall. Of course not.
The nonsense of prayer of gods,
of that which millions fight and die for,
revealed by the hopes of an autistic boy.