He is walking a line; his footsteps mark a square
around the playground.  The others forget his name:
a boy that isn’t really anywhere.

Wherever he was just then, he isn’t there
but somewhere further along, just out of frame.
He is walking a line; his footsteps mark a square

enclosing his teacher, enclosing the autumn air.
She blames no-one, knowing she cannot blame
a boy that isn’t really anywhere.

He is more than alone.  While other children pair
off by the fence and a penalty kicker takes aim,
he is walking a line.  His footsteps mark a square

like the edge of a board, a game of solitaire.
He doesn’t seem to know another game.
A boy that isn’t really anywhere

is on the perimeter.  You’d think he doesn’t care
about being different.  But still, and just the same,
he is walking a line; his footsteps mark a square,
a boy, that isn’t really anywhere.

Previously published in Poetry Review and The School Year (MacMillan)