The Window's Witness Poem by Micron Jan

He sits where the afternoon thins,
By a window clouded with breath and years.
The glass keeps time in soft blurs,
Smearing faces he'll never meet again.

Outside, the commuters pass like clockwork—
The man in the suit, briefcase in hand,
Stepping into his car at the same time each day,
Never knowing the watcher who knows his schedule.

A boy drags his backpack, head down,
Dreading the school that waits beyond the corner.
He shuffles, mutters, glances at the sky,
And the old man remembers a youth of his own.

Shoes hurry, laughter flashes past,
Umbrellas bloom and vanish,
All of it moving without him.

His hands rest like folded questions,
Remembering weight, warmth, purpose.
Names rise, then drift away,
Like steam from the cooling pane.

The window gives him what it can:
Shapes, motion, light, and sound.
And he gives the world his watching—
Quiet proof he's still here.