I sit at my window and take a look.
There is a guy standing there holding a book.
He has a pencil in hand and he is starting to write.
What does it say?
I can't see from my height.

Is it a grocery list?
Did he invent something new?
Is he writing down notes or a song or some clues?
Is it a plot to take over this town?
He's starting to erase..
He's starting to frown..
He's writing again,
He's writing so fast.
Is it plans for the future or thoughts of the past?

The bus is coming.
He is writing so quick.
He is flipping to a new page with the finger he licked.
He slammed his book shut and stuffed it in his sack.
The bus doors open as he steps back.
He takes his first step and his eyes turn towards me.
I duck down rather quick.
Did I hide or did he see?

The bus pulls away and I go back to the ledge.
He dropped his book is by the benche's edge.
I slip on my shoes and grab my coat.
I need to see what the stranger wrote.
I run to my door and open it fast.
I splash in a puddle as I run past.
I cross the street and over to the bench.
I see the book as my stomach starts to wrench.
I open the book and start to flip.
Page by page, some are bent, some are ripped.
I get towards the back... and what do I see..
It's a drawing of a boy.. in a window.. peeking out... ... it's me.

© Blake Webb