JUST OUT OF SHOT

HE wondered why he had always been
just out of shot;
a loose thread on the cuff of life;
the team player whose team
was over there.
He had tried to be main stream,
but was never sure he saw the world
from where the main stream was.
In fact, he was always, inevitably,
incomprehensibly and most frustratingly
aware that the main stream
was somewhere else, and regarded
him with contempt.
His hair - it wasn't right. Not quite
His shoes - was it sylish to be
lace-up or slip on?
He wasn't sure, but knew whatever
he went for would be wrong.
His shirts, his suits, his views,
the way he held his beer
and how he stood and
what he said and
the things that made him laugh
- just always out of kilter
with the rest, making him
a little odd. The tag-along.
The little boy running to catch up.
For ever running,
for ever hoping
they'd slow down long enough
to let him meld into their midst.
But when he died,
at his very own funeral,
surely they'd know he'd been one of them
and give him some respect.
Respect!
It was the one thing he'd ever really wanted,
and it was the one thing, he knew in his bones,
he'd only get when he was dead.