• They're not coming back,
    Are they.
    It is more of a statement,
    Than a question.
    I wait in the back row,
    Head hanging,
    Listening:
    To their laughter;
    It is mean and cruel.
    To their chatter;
    It is a stinger, sharp and piercing.
    The talking dies,
    Just for a second, but I know
    They're staring at me.
    I know.
    They're thinking
    "What a freak"
    I'm invisible,
    So why can they see me?
    Because I was once visible to them.
    I was once one of them.
    But now all they see is a shadow,
    And they hate me
    Because I am different.
    Their footsteps pad quietly up the aisle,
    Their chatter resumed.
    It should be a relief,
    But it is about me.
    They pass me;
    There is no stopping,
    Their is no asking to come along.
    There is only cold ignorance.
    I hear the door open-
    There is a burst of laughter-
    cut off as the door slams shut.
    A few seconds later, the outer door slams too.
    I continue to look down,
    to stare at my hands
    to try to forget.
    But it is no use,
    So I wait:
    Five seconds,
    Five minutes,
    Forever.
    I wait for the sound of the door opening;
    I wait for the footsteps to return;
    I wait to be included in something where I've been exiled forever.
    I wait,
    But all I hear is the echoing silence.
    They're not going to return:
    It is a statement,
    Not a question.