Somebody.

He's thin, but not terribly so.
His elbows form sharp angles
as he slouches against the
classroom wall.
A faded black sweatshirt
conceals his frame,
and saves him from further observation.
Long legs extend from his seat,
parallel to the desk.
Slowly, deliberately,
he reaches down to his shoe,
pulls a pair of scissors out of his sock.
Carefully, he dissects
his copy of our class work.
Contrary to me,
his movements are measured,
and he walks with
that same pensive air
with which he does everything.
On the bus rides, sitting across the aisle,
he folds himself in half
in order to fit on the seat;
lying with his head cushioned
by a bundled up singlet;
white and gray socks resting
on the edge of my seat.
One might believe him for a corpse.
We pull up to a far-away school,
and he sits up, then stays
perfectly still for a moment.
He turns first towards the window,
then towards me,
with questions in his eyes.
As the confusion of sleep wears off,
he seems to remember
why he's here and we leave the bus,
traipsing towards the grassy field
where the races will start.
The moment he sets his bag down,
he follows it to the ground,
assuming much the same
position he had on the ride up.
At the starting line,
he stands, still as always.
Around him, boys jump up and down,
and try to shake the nerves from their limbs.
Not him.
He stares calmly ahead
and shares a joke with the guy standing next to him.
The race starts.
Runners frantically scramble
for a good place in the pack.
For him, it seems to come naturally.