In the dead of the night
and the warmth of the summer,
he sat by his window,
watching our crowd go by.

I look into that window
with its paint peeling and glass dirty.
I see the boy sitting inside,
his dark eyes darting away from mine.

He finds no hope in looking, in communicating.
No one else would dare to meet his gaze,
no one would acknowledge his hello
if he had hope enough to say it.

I turn away from the window
and back to my bubbling group.
I resumed talking, laughing, joking
with the people I know, who know me.

But as we carry on down the road,
laughing loudly and bumbing along,
I can't help but think of the boy
that is so far from being one of us.