ASD by Alice Osborn   He disappears when I open The passenger side Of my Mustang door.   Lean legs pump to a rhythm Only he knows.   I never lose sight of him. Near the busy street.   He must touch gray streetlights. Wide ones with plugs on Either side.  Then mailboxes and A fire hydrant With a silver chain around its neck.   I run.  My one stride matches his three. But he's fast and Crosses The street Without looking.    My eyes sting when I hit him. He falls to the dry grass. "Don’t do that!" I cry.   Why can't he stay with me? Tomorrow he runs away again.

Alice Osborn is a poet, writing instructor, award-winning essayist, published web writer, and creative nonfiction workshop leader.  She is also a board member of Carolina Wren Press in Durham, NC and a freelance PR/editor.  In North Carolina State's MA English program, Alice is currently working on her master's thesis -- a hybrid first-year creative nonfiction curriculum combining rhetoric and cultural studies. She grew up in the Washington, DC area, lived several years in the Lowcountry of South Carolina, and now lives in Raleigh, NC with her husband and young son.  Visit her web site at  www.aliceosborn.com.   

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